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FINE CLAY 

A NOVEL 


BY 

ISABEL C. CLARKE 



AUTHOR OF "BY THE BLUE RIVER,” "THE SECRET CITADEL,” 
“prisoners’ YEARS,” “nomad SONGS,” ETC. 



> 1 
> ) > 



New York, Cincinnati, Chicago 

BENZIGER BROTHERS 

PUBLISHERS OF BENZIGER’S MAGAZINE 

1914 

Mt * 



\ 


COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY BENZIGER BROTHERS 


SEP 28 1914 

©CI.A379735 



AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED TO 

MRS. ROBERT GOFF 



FINE CLAY 


CHAPTER I 

T hrough long periods of comparative insolv- 
ency, consequent upon that inherent and un- 
conquerable optimism generally held to be char- 
acteristic of the gambler’s temperament, Major 
Pascoe had drifted like some rudderless but not 
altogether abandoned derelict from pension to 
pension, now in Brussels, anon in Bruges, even 
at more fortunate times as far afield as in Flor- 
ence and Naples. Brighter intervals had found 
him in the less favored and more economical cara- 
vanserais of Nice, Mentone, and Monte Carlo 
— which latter place might even justly have been 
defined as the Mecca of his pious imaginings. 
But when there he would endeavor to ease his 
conscience with the reflection that the South was 
necessary for his health, which, though good and 
even remarkable considering the strain put upon 
it, was not particularly robust. His native land 
now seldom saw him, a fact which he tried to re- 
gret in more sentimental moments. Those of 
his family who still remained had been alienated 
first by his long residence as a youth in India, 
and partly it must be confessed for the very just 
reason that they entirely disapproved of him and 


2 


FINE CLAY 


his mode of life. They had ceased to send him 
even coldly-worded invitations, and for some 
years of continuous ill-luck and pecuniary em- 
barrassment Maxim Pascoe had been living in 
Boulogne, a reputedly inconsolable widower with 
his little girl Yolande. 

He was a retired officer who had seen service 
on the Indian frontier. As a youth his pros- 
pects had been sufficiently fair, and for his edu- 
cation Eton and Sandhurst, with an interval be- 
tween the two passed at an expensive crammer’s, 
were responsible. For more than ten years he 
had thoroughly enjoyed his life in a regiment of 
native cavalry, and on his credit side must be 
mentioned one or two acts of considerable valor, 
known to his comrades, and perhaps even yet not 
altogether forgotten in the annals of certain 
desolate outposts of Empire, although they had 
never been mentioned in despatches nor crowned 
with official recognition. 

It was while serving in India that he had met 
a wealthy globe-trotter, Mr. Raymond Chesson, 
and his daughter, Veronica. The daughter was 
very young, very pretty, and indulged beyond 
belief by her only surviving parent. She was 
unsophisticated, susceptible; Maxim Pascoe was 
experienced, attractive and popular. Tall, thin 
and graceful in a lean wiry greyhound way he 
spelt perfection in Veronica’s eyes. She fell in 
love with him with all the heedlessness of seven- 
teen. He tried to believe that his own feeling 
for her was, as he would have expressed it, but an 
engouement. Matrimony- formed no part of his 
scheme of life. In affairs of the heart he had 


FINE CLAY 


3 


shown himself not a little unscrupulous. Many 
hoped and believed that this was only one of 
Max’s passing infatuations, when he was seen 
dancing attendance early and late upon the shy, 
sweet-looking girl, with her father’s apparent ap- 
probation. It was felt, too, that perhaps even- 
tually something less immature might clinch his 
destiny. Nevertheless, after ten days of una- 
vailing resistance Captain Pascoe — as he was 
then — succumbed. He approached Mr. Ches- 
son with a timidity that was curiously humble, 
and was received dubiously and not altogether 
with the open arms for which he had hoped. Mr. 
Chesson had perceived the direction in which 
matters were tending; he had questioned his 
daughter and elicited a tearful confession as to 
her feelings for the handsome soldier, and he had 
then not unjustifiably made a few inquiries as to 
the reputation and character of Max Pascoe. 
The result, while it did not wholly allay paternal 
misgivings, showed Maxim in not too unfavor- 
able a light. Had Mr. Chesson possessed six 
daughters, instead of this solitary and cherished 
specimen, it is probable that his welcome would 
have been more cordial. But Captain Pascoe 
was honey-tongued, and the faintest hint of op- 
position made him violently obstinate. His de- 
termination to win Veronica was very forcibly 
set in front of Veronica’s father. He went 
away, and Mr. Chesson then held a very solemn 
interview with his daughter. Even if he had 
wished to prevent the marriage this would have 
proved for him an irremediably false step. Ver- 
onica had not known her father for seventeen 


4 


FINE CLAY 


years for nothing. She could have cajoled and 
coaxed him into letting her marry the greatest 
detrimental that ever stepped. Indeed, as it was 
he liked Maxim so much that very little persua- 
sion on her part was necessary. She did not 
have to shed a single tear in order to win his con- 
sent. Her joy was so wonderful a thing that it 
made him feel quite young again merely to wit- 
ness it. She had been afraid, she admitted, that 
Maxim could never care for any one so childish 
and ignorant. 

Their troth was plighted, and thus the for- 
tuitous meeting of these two persons at a rather 
remote hill-station crystallized suddenly into a 
permanent situation destined in the future to 
give rise to innumerable complications. The 
Pagans might well believe that at the tying of 
such a knot the three grim sisters gave vent to a 
cackle of laughter, loud enough to penetrate to 
the stage whereon their poor puppets moved and 
played with such unconscious happiness. 

Almost before he could realize it Maxim Pas- 
coe was standing before the altar of an incredibly 
dingy and impoverished Catholic church in the 
Hills, making enduring vows to Veronica Ches- 
son, placing gold and silver in her palm, and slip- 
ping a gold ring newly blessed upon her absurdly 
small finger. She was petite, slim and graceful ; 
the top of her head, crowned with orange blos- 
soms, reached but midway between his elbow and 
shoulder. He felt as he looked down upon her 
then as if he had quite solemnly undertaken the 
guardianship of another man’s child, and, in- 
deed, there was good reason for this view of the 


FINE CLAY 


5 


case. The ceremony, brief and stripped of all 
the externals of music and singing to which he 
was accustomed, nevertheless impressed him very 
profoundly. To his dying day he never forgot 
the tawdry appurtenances of that church, which 
had seemed to him then a little forlorn and pa- 
thetic in its obvious poverty. The badly-executed 
and cheap statue of Our Lady of Victories was 
rather gaudy in coloring; there was an almost 
comic presentment of St. Joseph and a repellent 
one of St. Francis Xavier, the patron of the lit- 
tle Mission. He had time to notice all these 
things, and yet he thought he had never once 
turned his eyes away from the radiant little fig- 
ure beside him, clad in shining bridal array. 
She was devout and recollected; he felt that she 
was praying with passionate earnestness. He 
repeated the words after the priest with mechan- 
ical emphasis, and wondered a little at her com- 
posure. 

People prophesied that he would certainly 
break her heart when the mutual infatuation was 
over. But Maxim Pascoe had not broken his 
little Veronica’s heart. Even if he had at- 
tempted to do so — which he never did — he would 
have found that it was made of sterner stuff than 
his enemies supposed. Behind those quiet brown 
eyes there was much steadfastness of purpose; 
beneath that small and rather child-like form 
there was real grit. She taught him many 
things. He soon realized that she was not a 
child but a very loving and lovable woman. As 
in the days of their engagement she had stirred 
something that was chivalrous and tender in him, 


6 


FINE CLAY 


so as his wife she evoked from him a passionate 
adoration. He made strange efforts to fit in 
with her ideal. Soon he was tortured by 
thoughts of the danger that awaited her. If 
she had lived the Boulogne pensions might never 
have known that debonair and rather dissipated- 
looking figure. But she lived only long enough 
to hold her baby in her feeble arms, and to know 
that it had been baptized Yolande Mary Veronica 
by the same priest who had married them not a 
year before. She received the last rites of the 
Church with a tranquillity that bewildered 
Maxim. Then turning to her husband she 
spoke words of unimagined tenderness, commit- 
ting her baby to his care with instructions that he 
never forgot. And that same night she died. 

Thus again he found himself the rather un- 
likely guardian of a child, this time his own, a wee 
white mite of a thing with big bfown eyes and 
hair like black floss silk wandering in loose rings 
about that miniature brow which so curiously re- 
sembled Veronica’s. He was too simple a man 
to indulge in any morbid thoughts towards the 
baby for whom the mother’s frail life had been 
spent. He could always answer to the call of 
duty; in moments of stress he was seldom found 
wanting. And all that he could do for his wife 
now was to care for her child. He made many, 
many vows kneeling beside Veronica’s coffin, 
during the few hours that elapsed before it was 
taken away with the cruel swiftness so necessary 
in the East. He told those death-dulled ears 
again and again that the child of their love should 
be brought up in the Catholic faith. . . . He 


FINE CLAY 


7 


wished passionately then that he had himself be- 
longed to that faith, so that he might have carried 
out his promises with even greater exactitude. 

Thus his married life had been curiously epi- 
sodic, and few people knew the poignant history 
that was written so deeply, so unforgettably 
upon his heart. During those few months of 
their union he had learned to depend wholly upon 
Veronica, and her death gave him a sense of for- 
lorn helplessness, but contrary to expectation he 
showed no disposition to repeat the experience of 
matrimony. He told himself that he could 
never love again as he had loved Veronica. 
Leaving the baby and her ayah with some friends 
in Bombay he volunteered for service on the 
frontier. He wooed death recklessly at the can- 
non’s mouth, and learned how that grim god dis- 
dains the proffered gift. But he received a bad 
wound in his foot and was invalided home a few 
months later. 

It was at this point that things began to “pan 
out badly” as he would have expressed it. First 
came the Chesson failure, pricking the bubble of 
that large Stock Exchange fortune, and inci- 
dentally killing Mr. Chesson, whose health had 
already been hopelessly shattered by the news of 
his darling’s death. All Veronica’s fortune was 
lost in the crash, for Mr. Chesson, doubting his 
son-in-law’s business capacity and prudence, had 
made no settlements, preferring to give the 
young couple a large allowance which he had con- 
tinued after his daughter’s death. Maxim sud- 
denly found himself in grievous pecuniary diffi- 
culties. His own debts had been accumulating 


8 


FINE CLAY 


since Sandhurst days; he had always lived ex- 
travagantly, and he had run through practically 
all his own money. He sent in his papers, virtu- 
ously resolving to adopt a more lucrative profes- 
sion than that of arms. His health prevented 
him from immediately executing this pro- 
gram, and before his foot had healed he had 
already drifted into that nomadic continental 
life, which is invariably demoralizing from its 
idle aimlessness, and was particularly bad for a 
man of Maxim’s temperament. 

His sister, Mrs. Jardine, had offered to take 
Yolande and educate her with her own children. 
This was met by a rather curt and haughty 
refusal. Intemperate letters passed between 
them. This was the beginning of that perma- 
nent coolness which existed always between 
Major Pascoe and his own family. They had 
come to the conclusion that he was by no means 
the proper guardian for a little girl, and, indeed, 
they had some justification for their opinion. 
Mrs. Jardine had wished to remove Yolande 
from her father’s environment. “And I should 
have thought Max would have been only too 
thankful to get rid of the responsibility,” she 
added indignantly when discussing the matter 
with her husband. 

But Maxim had not given a second considera- 
tion to the proposal. If one judged him by a 
high standard of prudence and reliability he 
would without doubt have proved most lamen- 
tably wanting. He was not an ideal guardian 
for any child, and he was not at all accustomed to 


FINE CLAY 


9 


children and had no great natural love for them 
as so many men have. But he possessed certain 
qualities, and to his own code of honor he ad- 
hered undeviatingly and rigidly. Those prom- 
ises he had made to Veronica long ago in India 
before their marriage, which he had reiterated be- 
tween his sobs as he knelt beside her coffin, he 
carried out with a fine scrupulousness. No 
Catholic devotee could have done more than he 
did in regard to the bringing up of Yolande in 
her mother’s faith. His own faith was, it must 
be confessed, a trifle sketchy. He believed in 
doing one’s duty, in playing the game, in keep- 
ing one’s word, and he held a vague though con- 
soling belief that some day he should see Ver- 
onica again, immortally young, eternally beauti- 
ful, radiant in shining white raiment as when she 
had stood beside him as a little bride in the dull 
gloom of that church with its heavy atmosphere 
of spent incense. And he had a conviction that 
when they did thus meet she would demand of 
him an account of his stewardship. She had 
trusted him, and he was not going back upon his 
word. It would have been following the line of 
least resistance to send the child to Mrs. Jardine, 
and his motive for refusing her offer would still 
further have incensed her had she been aware of 
it. Besides religion was a good thing for a girl 
to have. Had he not seen its abiding effects in 
that last gallant hour, when, fortified by the rites 
of Holy Church, Veronica’s brave sweet spirit 
had left its fragile prison-house of clay? What- 
ever else, therefore, he did or left undone, how- 
ever indifferently he kept that square allotted 


10 


FINE CLAY 


to him by destiny, Major Pascoe was careful to 
see that all those who were successively entrusted 
with his daughter’s upbringing and education 
were not only Catholics, but devout and practis- 
ing ones. In emergency he would consult a 
priest, the Superior of a Convent, and other au- 
thorities of the kind, in order to find a suitable 
nurse or governess for Yolande. Indeed, he 
showed so much solicitude on the subject that he 
had several times raised high hopes in pious 
minds as to the possibility of his own conversion. 
But Maxim invariably disappointed those who 
desired his salvation, as in the past he had dis- 
appointed those who had felt that they could 
minister to his happiness, and, after his wife’s 
death, to his consolation. If Veronica had lived 
he might have desired this saving grace. But he 
had had a succession of crushing blows, and they 
had made him a little reckless. The death of his 
wife, the loss of fortune, the wound which had 
compelled him to retire before his term of service 
was complete, had in their turn deprived Maxim 
Pascoe of powerful aids in the battle of life. 
Things were going from bad to worse with him 
when help appeared upon the scene in the un- 
likely guise of Miss Susan Tibbit. 


CHAPTER II 


TV/Tiss Tibbit had never been beautiful, and 
now she had grown stout, and this was per- 
haps even less becoming to her than the gaunt 
and angular thinness of her girlhood. She was 
of middle height, and had a rather square, large 
face with a sallow complexion, beady eyes of 
nondescript darkness, a blunt nose, and scanty 
grayish hair. But beneath this unhandsome ex- 
terior she possessed a heart of gold, and so much 
British pluck and honesty that her acquaintances 
readily forgot the abrupt lack of suavity and 
polish in her speech and manner. A continuous 
conflict against poverty and the perpetual ex- 
perience of treading strangers’ stairs and of eat- 
ing the bread of dependence — commonly sup- 
posed to be productive of much bitterness — had 
roughened a nature that was not already perhaps 
too smooth. Plain of speech as of face, the role 
of governess which she had adopted at the age of 
eighteen had made her more than a little inclined 
to be dictatorial. The habit of perpetual fault- 
finding and of remonstrance, the struggle for 
supremacy over successions of unruly children, 
had deprived her of any feminine charm she 
might once have possessed. British in type, 
with the thick figure, the tasteless if well-fitting 
garments, the large feet encased in strong boots 
so invariably portrayed in the impertinent Gallic 


12 


FINE CLAY 


caricatures of her countrywomen, Miss Tibbit 
was apt at first sight to engender feelings of re- 
pulsion, if not of actual alarm, in the hearts of her 
beholders. You could at a glance determine her 
nationality, her character, and her calling. 

Like Major Pascoe, she lived in Boulogne for 
reasons of economy; but, unlike him, the Casino 
supplied for her no secondary motive. Any 
form of gambling was abhorrent to her. Her 
conversion to Catholicism had not changed a con- 
science that was sturdily nonconformist. She 
eked out a small annuity — the legacy of a de- 
voted pupil who had forgotten her severity, and 
remembered only her unchanging fidelity — by 
giving English lessons. Yolande Pascoe, with 
her dark hair and beautiful eyes, was well known 
by sight at least to the English colony at 
Boulogne, although she seldom mixed with other 
children. It would be perhaps too much to say 
that Miss Tibbit had taken a fancy to Yolande, 
but she had felt for a long time extremely sorry 
for her. Nor would her compassion, if closely 
analyzed, have proved altogether complimentary 
to Major Pascoe. For some months past Susan 
Tibbit had had her eye on the two; had noticed 
the frequency with which nurse or governess 
came and went, and had wondered as to the 
reason. One of them, however, whom she knew 
slightly, explained the matter to her. The sal- 
ary was irregularly paid; sometimes it was not 
even forthcoming at all. It was swallowed up in 
the insatiable maw of the Casino. And this was 
a world where one could not afford to be gener- 
ous. M. Pascoe was charming, and his little girl 


FINE CLAY 


13 


was tres sage , tres serieuse, and gave no trouble 
. . . but one could not live without money. 

One summer Yolande’s governess fell ill and 
was removed to a clinique. Maxim Pascoe felt, 
as he expressed it, stranded. For almost a week 
he did not once hazard his luck at petits chevaux. 
He occupied himself entirely with Yolande, who 
was then about ten years old. He took her for 
walks, heard her read and repeat her catechism, 
gave her dictations, and accompanied her to 
Mass at the Cathedral on Sundays. It was a 
part that did not fit the poor man well, and he 
was further discouraged by the feeling that Yo- 
lande was aware of this, and was dutifully trying 
to hide the fact from him. The two had just 
settled down to the morning lessons in the quiet 
little sitting-room overlooking the harbor, when 
a knock was heard at the door, and the Swiss 
waiter announced: “Mees Teebeet.” 

A large rather breathless figure approached 
him with something of the unwieldy action of a 
ship in a stiff gale. 

Maxim rose to greet the new-comer, and be- 
stowed upon her his best bow, which had now in- 
sensibly acquired, as the result of environment, a 
hint of Gallic gallantry. 

His smile was still irresistible; his blue eyes, 
which ladies sometimes called “wicked,” had re- 
tained much of their brilliance and charm. 

“Good morning, madame,” he said, and if he 
felt any surprise at the intrusion he did not be- 
tray it. 

Miss Tibbit wasted no time in coming to the 
point. 


14 


FINE CLAY 


“I heard,” she said, “that your little girl’s gov- 
erness was ill. So I came to offer to take her 
place. I’ve brought my references, and if you 
want to know anything more about me M. le 
Cure and Marquise de Solignac will answer any 
questions. They’ve both known me for ten 
years.” 

Major Pascoe looked at her dubiously. He 
was by no means prepossessed by this blunt at- 
tack. But he was weary of playing the devoted 
parent, of teaching the young idea — even for one 
short week — to shoot; things for which he sor- 
rowfully admitted he was both inadequate and 
incompetent. 

“It was very kind of you to come, Miss . . . 
Miss . . 

He was afraid to hazard the name presented 
to him in such mutilated Helvetian fashion. 

“Tibbit,” she said, “Susan Tibbit.” From a 
letter-case of shabby, but solid brown leather she 
produced some documents, and presented them 
to Maxim Pascoe, who, from sheer embarrass- 
ment, accepted them, and glanced perfunctorily 
at their contents. One and all were eulogistic. 
“Thoroughly competent to teach French, Ger- 
man, Latin, Greek, and the usual English sub- 
jects, with the rudiments of music and drawing.” 
“An excellent governess for preparing boys for 
their first school.” “Has grounded my three 
sons in Latin, Greek, algebra, and Euclid,” pro- 
claimed another. “A thorough disciplinarian, 
unusually successful with spoilt and refractory 
children.” At this the Major halted and smiled. 
He glanced at the neat little dark head of his 


FINE CLAY 


15 


daughter, studiously bent above her book, and 
then pointed with a whimsical expression to the 
last of these testimonials. 

“But what an ominous recommendation, Miss 
Tibbit,” he said. 

“That reference is twelve years old — it isn’t 
much use to me now,” she admitted rather re- 
luctantly; “but in those days children were 
taught to obey.” Her answering smile was a lit- 
tle grim. 

“I’m afraid,” he said, restoring the case to its 
owner, “that you are altogether too clever and 
too experienced. I mean Yolande is only ten, 
and she has never been refractory. And I 
simply couldn’t afford to give you what your 
merits and attainments deserve.” 

Her odd look of undisturbed determination 
silenced him. 

“You can give me,” she said, “just what you 
like. I’ve known your little girl by sight for 
some time past, and I have set my heart on teach- 
ing her.” 

Major Pascoe was a man of impulse. Had he 
not become engaged to Veronica after ten days’ 
acquaintance? Had he not subsequently mar- 
ried her with all possible celerity? But advanc- 
ing years often diminish a natural instinct to fol- 
low the dictates of impulse, and urge the superior 
claims of reason and experience. He hesitated. 
She saw her advantage. 

“At any rate, you might give me ... a trial 
. . .” she suggested almost humbly. “And if 
you found afterwards that I didn’t suit . . .” 

She glanced at Yolande, who did not stir from 


16 


FINE CLAY 


her seat by the window, although now she had 
taken her eyes from her book, and was looking 
out across the Quai Gambetta upon the busy 
harbor. Far off she could see, across the divided 
blue, a glimmer of white cliffs touched to gold 
and lying as if asleep in the sunshine. She wove 
childish dreams about this England which she al- 
ways visualized as a place of white cliffs, austere 
and uncompromisingly perpendicular, alter- 
nately bathed in sunlight or draped with cold and 
drifting mists under a low gray sky. But on 
certain days that unknown shore looked so close 
that she felt she could almost have thrown a stone 
across the slender strip of blue sea. And young 
as she was, she had an impression that England 
would some day hold something for her — a treas- 
ure of whose worth and nature she could hazard 
no guess ; it lay swallowed up in the obscurity of 
those drifting cold mists. When the time came, 
she would cross the sea and touch it with her 
hands. . . . Perhaps she would go in a steamer 
with her father. There was one leaving the har- 
bor now, churning a path of white foam in its 
wake. The long scarf of filmy black gauze that 
emerged from its funnel melted swiftly into the 
radiant blue of the August sky. Yolande 
thought, however, that she should prefer to make 
that momentous voyage to England in one of the 
fishing-boats. They were infinitely more mys- 
terious and romantic than the steamers that plied 
to and fro daily. She liked to see them sailing 
out with their heavy red brown sails proudly un- 
furled; she liked best, however, to watch their re- 
turn, laden with the harvest of the sea, when the 


FINE CLAY 


17 


quays were heaped up with all kinds of fish, sil- 
ver-gray and shining white, and pink and red. 
Then if you got near enough you could see how 
weather-beaten were those masts and decks, how 
stained the huge sails, mute evidence to their 
stormy voyaging, their perilous adventures on 
days and nights of fierce gales. Those were the 
times when the white-coifed women stole up to 
the Calvary on the cliff, or to the shrine of Our 
Lady of Boulogne, and prayed for their men 
who were out on those raging waters. That 
mysterious statue, of which only the replica now 
remains, was an object of the most passionate in- 
terest to Yolande. She liked to think of that 
strange barque journeying from some unknown 
port, aglow with bright mystical light, coming 
without oars or sails or rudder across that very 
sea many hundreds of years ago. And some- 
times the child would creep out of bed in the si- 
lence of the night, and look out of her window 
into the darkness pricked by the wandering 
lights of the fishing craft, half hoping that she 
might see a mysterious barque coming into the 
port, carrying on its deck a statue of Our Lady 
holding the Child in her arms, surrounded by 
vivid unearthly light and watched by adoring 
angels. . . . 

On the quays, shining in the hot sunlight, 
groups of people could be seen loitering or 
hurrying as occasion demanded ; the fishermen in 
their brown jerseys, the porters in their blue 
blouses, the passengers making their way to- 
wards the trains that were drawn up in long black 
lines. The trains were only a degree less inter- 


18 


FINE CLAY 


esting to Yolande than the ships. She tried to 
picture their swift journeying, often in the dark- 
ness, across France and into those strange and 
beautiful countries that lay beyond France; the 
wild white world of the Alps splendid with their 
imperishable crowns of snow, the somber Apen- 
nines, the beautiful shining cities and wonderful 
vine-clad hills and plains of Italy; the sunny 
ports, where yet other ships went forth to other 
worlds of lonely scorched deserts and strange 
aged cities that had once been powerful and now 
lay asleep, forgetful of their past grandeur. . . . 

Her father’s voice broke abruptly across her 
world of dreams, and brought her sharply back 
to the little room in the Pension Constantine. 

“Well, Miss Tibbit,” he said, “I have certainly 
felt these last few days that a man isn’t quite the 
right person to educate a little girl. Now if 
Yolande had been a boy ... Not that I ever 
wished for a son,” he added hastily, for indeed to 
have been compelled to pose permanently as an 
example would, he felt, have inflicted too cruel 
a strain upon him. “It isn’t really a question 
either of shirking responsibility — it is a con- 
sciousness of one’s own limitations. I don’t 
know in the least if she is having the right kind 
of things to eat! You can give a priest’s refer- 
ence, I think you said? I’m not a Catholic my- 
self, but my little girl is, and I never engage any 
one for her without first assuring myself that 
they are practising Catholics!” 

All that was fiercely British illuminated her 
countenance. 

“If any one else were to ask me such a question 


FINE CLAY 


19 


I should regard it as an insult, Major Pascoe!” 
she said, with considerable hauteur. 

“Ah, but you mustn’t be offended,” he said, 
smiling; “you see . . . her mother ... I prom- 
ised ... Not being one myself makes me addi- 
tionally careful. . . .” 

It was at this point that their attitude towards 
each other insensibly softened. He began to re- 
gard Miss Tibbit with admiration not wholly, 
however, unmixed with awe, and in the years that 
followed, his more intimate knowledge of her 
only served to deepen, but never to change, the 
sentiments she inspired at their first interview. 

She was, in her turn, mollified by a speech, 
which appeared to her to contain so much that 
was praiseworthy and admirable; and she began 
to feel an unwilling respect for this man, of 
whom she knew so little that could be counted to 
his advantage. 

“You’re quite right to be careful,” she 
snapped: “but if you entrust Yolande to me, I’ll 
see that she’s brought up a good Catholic.” 

“But then the salary . . .” It was his last 
line of defense, and he felt convinced that she> 
would speedily demolish this also. “I can give 
so little. And I’m afraid I can’t afford to give 
more. You see, I live here because it’s 
cheap. . . .” 

“So do I,” said Susan Tibbit. 

Major Pascoe felt as if this determined lady 
were about to engage him in some paid capacity; 
he almost forgot that she was successfully suing 
him for a ’situation for herself. 

“I must live somewhere,” she went on; “this 


20 


FINE CLAY 


pension is as good as any at the price — I know 
them nearly all. I’ll move here and take a room, 
and I’ll look after Yolande. In the evenings, 
when she’s in bed, I can give English lessons. 
And I tell you frankly that I can’t command the 
salary I used to. I’m too old and I haven’t any 
certificates. People want young governesses. 
High-school girls — Girton girls — things that 
were never heard of in my time. But I’m not a 
bad teacher for all that — I’ve been too long at the 
business not to know it in and out!” 

At this point Yolande slid from her seat. She 
had heard all the latter part of the conversation, 
and now realized that her own fate was hanging 
in the balance. A childish impulse to intervene 
seized her. She approached her father smiling. 
Although they had never been intimate she 
adored him. He was always kind to her ; he had 
never scolded her nor punished her; he was never 
irritable nor impatient with her. He had given 
her the inestimable boon of a tranquil and happy 
childhood. He had given her yet other things 
whose importance she could not now measure. 
If she had missed her mother’s temporal heritage, 
she had been at least assured of her spiritual one. 

She looked from one to the other. 

“Please let Miss Tibbit stay, papa,” she said. 

Susan Tibbit reddened. Children did not al- 
ways take to her ; often they were slow to discern 
the real kindliness, the staunch goodness that lay 
behind her harsh and severe aspect. This spon- 
taneous speech delighted her. She was silent, 
waiting for Major Pascoe to give his final de- 
cision. 


FINE CLAY 


21 


But he, poor man, had now completely lost 
control of the situation. The position had been 
rushed, and he had had no time to secure his de- 
fenses. Yolande had abruptly cut off his last 
line of retreat. It seemed to him that victory al- 
ready lay in those large and capable hands which 
had now drawn his child close to the ample form. 
Before the interview was over he had engaged 
Miss Tibbit, or would it perhaps be more correct 
to say that she had engaged him and Yolande? 
That same night her modest trunks and pos- 
sessions were removed to the Pension Constan- 
tine, which overlooked the harbor, and was also 
so fatally, so perilously close, to the Casino, 
whither Maxim Pascoe betook himself that even- 
ing with the gay carelessness of a released school- 
boy. It was obvious from Miss Tibbit’s deter- 
mined and competent manner that she had come 
to stay, and not only to stay, but to rule. She 
assumed command, but it was a command miti- 
gated by a new suavity as circumstances seemed 
to suggest. Yolande was a willing subject; she 
was invariably docile, and Miss Tibbit had in- 
spired her with trust. The austere English- 
woman gathered this motherless one in her arms, 
and Major Pascoe, witnessing their good-night 
embrace, felt satisfied that she would guard his 
child, and that if anything should happen to him, 
she would continue to bestow upon her a pro- 
tective and vigilant care, sheltering with her 
large and imposing person this small morsel of 
humanity from the onslaughts of any sudden 
storm. 

When he had his next heart attack he made a 


22 


FINE CLAY 


new will, appointing Miss Tibbit the sole guard- 
ian of his only child. 

And if the Three Sisters laughed their grim 
laugh at this new development, no echo of their 
ghastly merriment reached him to disturb his 
peace of mind. He had found an efficient govern- 
ess for Yolande, and was free to go his own way 
without let or hindrance. And that way led him 
down the long white boulevard to the Casino near 
the sea. 


CHAPTER III 


M ajor Pascoe’s heart-attacks were but tran- 
sitory afflictions. In less than a week he 
was back playing petits chevaux with an ardor 
stimulated by that brief period of privation. 
Fortune seemed to smile upon him as never be- 
fore. 

He felt singularly happy with regard to his 
daughter. Miss Tibbit was, he felt sure, a wise 
and kind custodian, who would make up for all 
his own deficiencies. He had not lost his ability 
for the right discernment of spirits. Veronica 
and Miss Tibbit remained the two shining ex- 
amples of his flair . He had a rather supersti- 
tious feeling that in the matter of Yolande’s up- 
bringing Veronica was guiding him, in some un- 
imaginable manner, from unseen starry spheres. 
That presence, so quiet, so gentle, so unobtrusive, 
withal so loving, seemed to be eternally with him. 
Death could not rupture the cord that bound 
them. . . . He who had been called faithless re- 
mained faithful. He who had been known as 
fickle showed a peculiar changelessness. Per- 
haps Veronica’s estimate of him, across the 
glamour of a young girl’s first adoring love, had 
been a less mistaken one than people supposed. 
Often on Sundays he would accompany Yo- 

lande and Miss Tibbit up the steep hill of pilgrim- 

23 


24 


FINE CLAY 


age to the great Cathedral, whose dome seems 
to dominate the town. Those were the days 
when the convents that lay so securely in the old 
town, within the strong ramparts, had not suf- 
fered from destructive hands nor become places 
of ruined cloister and empty sanctuary. Octo- 
ber had just set in, and the beech and chest- 
nut trees that lined the boulevard with twin ave- 
nues were a glory of gold, so bright that from 
afar they seemed to have almost the appearance 
of gaily blossoming flowers. And when Mass 
was over, Yolande loved to go with him round 
the somber gray ramparts, and look at the dis- 
tant harbor on the one side and the shining valley 
of the Liane on the other, with the faint green 
hills outlined vaguely against the sky. Some- 
times, too, on market days he could be persuaded 
to go with her to the Place D ’Alton and buy for 
a few sous the great bunches of roses or chrys- 
anthemums, pink and crimson, and golden and 
white. All the little world of Boulogne seemed 
to gather there to buy flowers or vegetables. 
Yolande had a passion for flowers, especially the 
sweet-scented ones, roses, violets, carnations and 
lilies. And when things were going pretty well, 
her father liked to see her happy face as she 
grasped the big bunches in her tiny arms. Yo- 
lande, as she grew older, knew when things were 
going well and when badly, with the curious in- 
stinctive knowledge of a child. She knew it, 
too, by the manner of the people in the pension. 
There were times when they were all most in- 
dubitably in disgrace. This was a feeling that 
hurt and wounded Yolande. It made Miss Tib- 


FINE CLAY 


25 


bit assume a sternly defensive attitude. She had 
a way of “dealing” with situations which Major 
Pascoe admired. He could not do that sort of 
thing himself; he was always smiling, debonair, 
full of promises, deaf and blind to half-veiled im- 
pertinences. He, the chief aggressor, suffered 
least, and it must be said that he had no idea that 
his child’s sensitive nature was outraged by the 
situation he had himself created. A run of luck 
. . . and all would be well. Miss Tibbit took 
advantage of any temporary prosperity and 
laid violent hands upon his wealth. She paid 
bills and spent the rest in a wise way, for she knew 
that if she did not it would inevitably find its way 
back to that insatiable maw. 

“Is there anything left, Miss Tibbit?” he 
would inquire with simulated carelessness. 

“I’m afraid not. You see, I had to pay all 
those bills. People were becoming importu- 
nate.” 

He sighed. “They might have waited a lit- 
tle longer, mightn’t they? However, I suppose 
you were right. My luck never lasts long.” 

She was aware by this time of the sinister fact. 

“I should like to see you give up the Casino,” 
she said. “Surely you could live quietly on what 
you have?” 

“What — on my pension?” he inquired, aghast 
at the suggestion. 

“I could arrange the budget,” she said tran- 
quilly. “And it would be at least more decent. 
And with a little management . . .” 

He shook his head. 

“Couldn’t do it,” he said. “And the place 


26 


FINE CLAY 


shuts next week. I shall go to Monte soon. I 
can leave Yolande with you and feel quite hap- 
py about her.” 

This became a yearly habit. He went south, 
as he expressed it, with the swallows, returning in 
the later spring when the avenues were bright 
with emerald verdure, and the Channel was al- 
most as blue on fine days as the Mediterranean 
he had left with such regret. Still, it was 
cheaper in Boulogne, and he could not altogether 
desert his child. She was growing up rapidly, 
and was tall for her age and straight and slim 
as a dart. She was nearly as pretty as Ver- 
onica — he would never acknowledge that she was 
really prettier than her mother had ever been. 
Four years of uninterrupted sway had crystal- 
lized Miss Tibbit’s position in the family into 
one of apparently complete permanency. It 
was not to be imagined that anything short of 
death would remove her. And she, too, saw that 
the child was growing up, and that she was going 
to be not only beautiful, but arrestingly beautiful. 
This knowledge filled her with something akin 
to dismay. She loved Yolande as she had never 
loved any one before in all her life. She indulged 
her as it would have seemed impossible in the old 
days that she could have indulged any one. The 
child had softened her. She was much less 
austere, much less harsh. She had even learned 
in those years to make due allowance for her em- 
ployer. She forgave him many things, and he 
made singular demands upon her forbearance. 
Her salary, though meager, was not always 
forthcoming. She never mentioned those ar- 


FINE CLAY 


27 


rears which he so conveniently forgot. The 
“little horses’’ often claimed also what was the 
just due of Monsieur le Proprietaire. The Pen- 
sion Constantine had been exchanged for a yet 
dingier one. Nevertheless, she had accompanied 
her charge there without a murmur. Out of her 
own slender means she had from time to time 
renewed Yolande’s worn-out shoes. She mended 
and darned, and darned and mended again, till 
her eyes were so tired she could scarcely see. 
The woman adjudged competent to teach French 
and German and the usual English subjects with 
the rudiments of music and painting, and to 
ground boys thoroughly in Latin, Greek, algebra 
and Euclid, spent her time voluntarily in these 
small and dreary activities. She loved Yolande, 
and she forgave Yolande’s father. 

“It is a pity you’re not a Catholic yourself, 
Major,” she said to him one day. 

“Why do you say that, Tibby?” he inquired. 
(He had picked up this mode of address from 
Yolande.) 

“You want a rudder,” she replied calmly. 

“I’ve got a rudder, thank you,” he said. 

But Miss Tibbet did not speak idly. And she 
had dealt in her time with too many rude and 
rough schoolboys to fear greatly what any one 
might say to her. She was always blunt and 
fearless. 

“Is it going to bring your ship into harbor?” 
she said. 

“Don’t know about that,” he said, throwing 
down the New York Herald and looking at her 
with a most engaging smile. 


28 


FINE CLAY 


Even now his smile had considerable charm, 
and his eyes were scarcely less blue than when 
Veronica had fallen in love with them. 

“Now if you’d the faith,” she went on, “you 
would see — just how necessary it is to make the 
harbor !” 

“I wish you would kindly remember that I’m 
fifty and quite •incorrigible,” he said; “but I’ve 
seen about Yolande having the rudder all right. 
Won’t that count to me for merit?” 

He had too much knowledge of the Church not 
to speak her language with some ease. 

“Faith is necessary — as well as works,” she 
said sternly. 

He went back to his paper, and she did not say 
anything more, but prayed that her words might 
“sink in” to that not altogether abandoned heart. 
It was for Yolande’s sake that she so eagerly de- 
sired his reformation. As a parent he seemed to 
her to represent all that was impossible and detri- 
mental. 

It cannot be denied that Miss Tibbit had ac- 
quired in the course of years a certain influence 
over her employer. It was not strong enough 
to win him from the absorbing if precarious de- 
lights of the “little horses,” nor to prevent him 
from absenting himself during the long winter 
months at Monte Carlo. The very fact of her 
presence enabled him to do this; always before 
he had been afraid to leave Yolande, and he did 
not like the prospect of taking the child with 
him. Miss Tibbit’s devotion to Yolande was 
now an established fact. She was a little 
ashamed — she who had lived so apart from all 


FINE CLAY 


29 


love and tenderness — that thus late in life her 
heart should be so deeply touched by the daugh- 
ter of another woman. Although she had not 
been lacking in affection for the children with 
whom she had been in the past associated, she had 
never profoundly loved any of them. She had 
always been the governess, scolding, rebuking, 
punishing. But Yolande Pascoe never received 
from Miss Tibbit anything but the most indul- 
gent tenderness. The child was very quickly re- 
sponsive to love as solitary children often are. 
And she loved “Tibby” very dearly. She had 
not a secret in the world from her. Even those 
childish dreams had been recounted to Tibby’s 
sympathetic ears. Tibby knew how Yolande 
had stood at the window in the old days at Pen- 
sion Constantine, hoping to see another barque 
approach the harbor lit by a sheet of mystical 
flame, bearing yet another miraculous statue of 
Our Lady from some unknown and unimagined 
port, guided by the Blessed Virgin herself. . . . 

The dreams were less absorbing now. Yo- 
lande was fourteen, tall and grave-looking for 
her years. There was very little of the child 
about her except her curious innocence. In her 
speech there was a very slight foreign accent, and 
she spoke French quite as easily and fluently as 
she did English. She had never been to Eng- 
land since she first arrived home from India as a 
baby, and the distant white cliffs still spelt romance 
and the unknown to her. If she felt her father’s 
protracted absences, often lasting for six months 
at a time, she never complained ; and the life she 
lived with Tibby in a little 'pension within the 


30 


FINE CLAY 


ramparts, in one of those tiny, narrow, crooked, 
old-world streets, if not exciting, was at least a 
tranquilly happy one. She had no companions 
of her own age. Her days were quite monot- 
onously uneventful. In the early morning she 
accompanied Tibby to Mass in the Cathedral, 
which was so close to their present abode, and 
on their return they partook of their coffee and 
rolls in the dingy little salle-a-manger. Lessons 
occupied the next three hours, and were relin- 
quished only at the hour of the mid-day dejeuner . 
After this meal they went for a walk, generally 
down to the shore, for Yolande loved the sea 
in all its moods. Then more lessons, a little visit 
to the Cathedral before dinner, an hour of quiet 
reading or working when that meal was over, and 
then bed-time. 

Rumor reached Miss Tibbit that Major Pascoe 
had passed a very successful winter, and was liv- 
ing like a prince at Cannes. Princely, too, were 
the cheques he duly posted to Miss Tibbit every 
Monday morning; they more than sufficed for 
the expenses of that quiet and cheap little pension 
whither she had moved immediately after Major 
Pascoe’s departure for the Midi. Prudently she 
began to put by a little nest-egg for Yolande. 
The rainy day was sure to come when hard- 
hearted creditors might force the Major to seek 
refuge in even dimmer and cheaper pensions. 
Still, the sunshine lasted quite unaccountably all 
through the winter, and Miss Tibbit committed 
small extravagances by making a whole new out- 
fit for Yolande. She could work like a French- 
woman, and the child’s lingerie was so delicate, 


FINE CLAY 


31 


it would not have disgraced a princess. She 
worked her fingers nearly to the bone. When 
the Major returned in June he was struck by 
the dainty charm of Yolande in her new and 
pretty summer frocks, the skirts of which were 
now almost long. She was already past his 
shoulder, straight, slim, slender, carrying her 
small dark head gracefully. Under her wide 
straw hat little dark curls, soft as silk, clustered 
against her white brow. But her hair was al- 
ways neat, and Tibby continued to tie it at the 
back with a large black bow. Yes — she was 
changed. She had nothing of the petite charm 
of Veronica. But she had her mother’s eyes — 
those beautiful brown eyes that had looked their 
last look of love into his sixteen years ago. Could 
it be that their little child was nearly sixteen? 
He bent down and kissed her as she stood there, 
white and dainty on the smutty platform. 

Then he turned to Miss Tibbit. “Well, 
Tibby — how are you?” he said. “Did you think 
I was never coming back?” 

“We’ve been expecting you for the last month, 
papa,” said Yolande; “you generally come early 
in May.” 

Miss Tibbit regarded him with some anxiety. 
He was certainly more dissipated-looking in ap- 
pearance; there was an uncomfortable air about 
him of having gone, ever so slightly, downhill— 
a moral descent which is so often accompanied 
by an indifference to personal neatness. He was 
no longer so scrupulously soigne . Late nights, 
hot rooms, the vitiated atmosphere and want of 
exercise, had painted dark stains round his eyes, 


32 


FINE CLAY 


sallowed his skin, deepened the lines and wrinkles. 
The blue eyes were slightly bloodshot, and his 
features had coarsened. It was not only the long 
night in the train that had given him a soiled and 
disheveled appearance. His fine neatness of 
person was a thing of the past. He was quite 
evidently and indubitably damaged-looking. 
Miss Tibbit could only hope that Yolande would 
not perceive this change in her adored parent. 
He was more irritable too, inclined to be morose 
and gloomy; his sunny charm which had always 
helped one to forgive him had temporarily van- 
ished. His temper was uncertain. He took an 
immediate dislike to the 'pension in the old town, 
and forthwith moved down to one nearer to the 
plage , and, incidentally, also to the Casino. Both 
Miss Tibbit and Yolande regretted this change. 
They had become attached to their quiet and sim- 
ple abode, with its nearness to the famous sanctu- 
ary, and to those shady walks under the avenues 
of beech and elm and chestnut that overhung the 
ramparts. But they submitted without a pro- 
test to his wish. He assumed the reins of gov- 
ernment, and his authority was after all unques- 
tionable. Only never before had his return home 
produced this sense of disturbance, of irritation, 
of unrest and upheaval. Even Yolande shed a 
few secret tears — unknown to Tibby — at this 
hasty removal, and at the manner in which it 
was conducted. She guessed that something was 
wrong. Hitherto the lack of money had been 
the only cause of untoward change. But on this 
occasion there did not appear to be any lack of 
money. She did not know that her anxiety on 


FINE CLAY 


33 


this point was shared by poor Tibby, who knew 
that there were worse things in this world than 
financial stress. 

Miss Tibbit did not again allude to the desira- 
bility of Major Pascoe’s conversion. His very 
appearance made the word perish miserably upon 
her lips. Yet she longed as never before to 
snatch this elusive brand from the burning. 
Moth-like, he emerged only with the desire to re- 
new his acquaintance with the destroying, but 
alluring flame. 

The passion for gambling is perhaps among 
the very few that know no satiety. Even ad- 
vancing years can throw no cold and quenching 
waters upon that burning desire. Major Pascoe 
gambled now as never before. He won, and he 
was happy; he lost, and he was momentarily de- 
pressed. Something of his suave and careless 
good-humor returned. His invincible optimism 
carried him back again and again to the attack. 
In a few months the nest-egg of halcyon days 
had all been swallowed up, and Yolande, who 
had grown out of her last winter’s clothes, owed 
every rag she possessed to Miss Tibbit, who kept 
the knowledge jealously from her. 

“Tibby,” said Maxim Pascoe, “that’s a new 
hat Yolande’s wearing.” 

“Yes, Major Pascoe,” she said primly. 

“You mustn’t — h’m — get her anything new 
just now. Fact is, I’ve had losses. . . He 
looked at her and smiled gallantly. “Debts of 
honor. I must pay them before I can afford 
fripperies for Yolande.” 

She was silent for a moment! then she said: 


34 FINE CLAY 

“I will see that there is no further extrava- 
gance.” 

The speech was not without guile, but he did 
not perceive it. She sometimes wondered if he 
ever noticed that the bill for the said hat was 
never presented to him. But he did not allude 
to the subject again. 

Miss Tibbit became more and more unhappy 
about him. She had by this time discovered the 
sinister cause of his downward progress. He was 
going rapidly down hill, and she could not stop 
him. He grew even more careless about his per- 
son, sometimes omitting to shave; he rose very 
late, and his outbursts of temper were alarmingly 
frequent. Although she mended and patched 
and darned, his garments betrayed the unholy 
poverty of their owner. There was nearly al- 
ways a tumbler of absinthe by his side as he lolled 
back in his arm-chair reading the New York Her- 
ald. When she first found him thus she took 
him fearlessly to task. Her profession had deep- 
ened the habit of remonstrance which women so 
seldom lack. Her tongue could still be sharp, 
if necessary. You could discern in her then the 
governess who had been eulogized as especially 
successful with unruly and refractory children. 
When she was really angry she could still be 
alarming. And she was very angry when she 
remonstrated that morning with Major Pascoe. 

“ ’Pon my word, Tibby,” he said with lazy 
insolence, “one would think you were my gov- 
erness !” 

“I believe,” she retorted sharply, “that if I’d 


FINE CLAY 


35 


been your governess forty years ago you wouldn’t * 
want speaking to like this to-day. Unfortunately 
I was in the schoolroom then myself.” 

“But I don’t want speaking to like this, Tibby,” 
he said. His blue eyes flashed a humorous glance 
at her agitated countenance. But they were no 
longer so bright and clear. They were even a 
little reckless, a little bleared. The eyes gave 
him away — as the saying goes — even more than 
the unshaven cheeks, the ill-kept hands. 

“Well, I’m going to speak to you now,” she 
said, “whether you like it or not l Not for your 
own sake — you’re a long way past that — but be- 
cause of Yolande!” 

“Why because of Yolande?” 

“She’s growing up fast — she will be sixteen 
soon.” 

“How time flies!” he murmured. Tempora 
mutantur! O tempora , O mores! You know 
the tags, Tibby!” 

But Miss Tibbit was not going to be put off 
with what she would have termed irrelevant lev- 
ity. 

“In another eighteen months or so she will be 
coming out,” she said. 

“Coming out? In Boulogne? Not if I know 
it!” 

And he leaned back indolently, and sipped 
some of the greenish fluid in the tumbler by his 
side. 

“And now that you’ve taken to that !” 

She pointed to it with a gesture of ineffable dis- 
gust. 

“It is very wholesome, Tibby,” he protested. 


36 


FINE CLAY 


“Not if you take it perpetually,” she snapped. 

Then emboldened she seized the glass and flung 
its contents out of the window. 

“You shall have no more of that to-day,” she 
said. “It clouds your judgment. It’s ruining 
you. Don’t you suppose any one can see the 
change in you? I’m only hoping for your sake 
as well as for her own that Yolande hasn’t no- 
ticed it! She is growing up, and do you think 
it is desirable that she should go on living in a 
place where her father is known to be an absinthe- 
drinking gambler?” She drove in her nail merci- 
lessly. 

“Oh, come now, Tibby — you’re painting me a 
bit too black!” 

“You are going down hill as fast as you can,” 
she said. “And you haven’t paid a penny here 
for the last six weeks !” 

“They’ve not dunned me yet,” he said non- 
chalantly. 

“No” — she flung this at him with positive 
venom — “but it’s only because I’ve paid them ev- 
ery sou out of my own pocket!” 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Tibby! You mustn’t do 
that, you know. I’ll give you a cheque on Mon- 
day. I simply can’t have you paying my bills — 
that’ll never do i” He was stirred into an unwill- 
ing sense of shame and remorse. 

“And I can’t have Yolande despised and in- 
sulted because of you!” 

“Who’s dared to insult and despise her?” He 
half rose now, and the blood surged to his tem- 
ples. What on earth did she mean? He began 
to bluster. 


FINE CLAY 


37 


“No one yet — I’ve seen to that. But I 
can’t live forever, and I can’t be a barking sheep- 
dog always at her heels when once she’s grown 
up. But do you think your daughter is going to 
command respect and reverence?” She made 
this sword-thrust without pity for her victim. 
Her words made him wince. 

“You’re rubbing it in with salt this morning, 
my dear Tibby! What’s the matter with you?” 
He resumed his seat and lit a cigarette, and 
looked mournfully at the ruthlessly emptied 
glass. 

Far down in his heart he knew that he de- 
served every syllable of her rough speech. His 
shamed look reassured Tibby. She knew by long 
experience that it presaged contrition, and at least 
some purpose of amendment. But she had not 
yet done with him. 

“It disgusts me that she, with all her beauty 
and charm and innocence, should have such a 
father!” 

“I’m sure I’ve done my best for her.” He was 
beginning to feel that he could not stand much 
more of this sort of thing ; it simply wrecked one’s 
nerves so early in the morning. Yet he had not 
the courage to send her out of the room. 

“No, you haven’t!” she snapped. “Oh, I’m 
not saying that you have not kept the promises 
you made to your wife — you’d keep your word 
when it’s once given, I’ll say that for you,” she 
grudgingly admitted. “But you’re ruining your- 
self body and soul, and though she doesn’t know 
it yet she’ll have to some day. Her pretty face 
will attract those associates of yours. That 


38 


FINE CLAY 


young Vane sent her a nice note! She doesn’t 
know, because I intercepted it. And he’s gone 
now — a fool with more money than brains.” 

All through the summer she had kept a lynx 
eye on those said associates. There were the 
pink-cheeked undergraduates, the subalterns, or 
the still younger aspirants to military glory, who 
came to Boulogne to improve their French. 
Many of them had cast admiring glances upon 
Yolande as she walked demurely along the plage . 
They were harmless if a trifle foolish. But there 
were also the full-lipped hawk-nosed men, whose 
departure always left Major Pascoe perma- 
nently poorer, and it is to be hoped at least tem- 
porarily wiser. These, too, had stared at Yo- 
lande with bold, appraising looks that filled Tibby 
with righteous, if suppressed wrath. “The 
Major’s little girl” — she could almost hear 
them saying — “a useful decoy-duck in a year or 
two. . . She, hardened by life, felt sham,e at 
the thought. 

“I wish you could see your way to leaving 
Boulogne,” she went on. “Why don’t you go 
to England? You’ve got relations there, I sup- 
pose? You might be glad to see them 
again. ...” 

“And would they be glad to see me again, d’ye 
think, Tibby?” 

The rejoinder was inevitable. 

“You could at least take Yolande there — away 
from all this!” 

“Oh, when she grows up I hope some nice 
young chap will come along and marry her.” 
Thus he airily dismissed the thought of his child’s 


FINE CLAY 


future which was a subject of such dark misgiv- 
ing to poor Miss Tibbit. 

“And is she likely to meet nice young chaps?” 
she inquired with cold irony. “Will they come 
in her way? Look at young Vane — writing a 
love-letter to a child of fifteen !” 

“I’ll shoot him if he ever comes here again,” 
said Maxim Pascoe savagely. But his hand 
shook a little, and it made him wonder if he were 
still the unerring marksman he had once been, 
steady of hand and eye. 

“That’ll do, Tibby,” he said at last; “I’ve had 
enough for one morning. And you’ve upset my 
nerves for a week attacking me like this.” He 
pulled himself together with a gigantic effort. 
“You’ve rather exceeded your province, haven’t 
you? I don’t want to be unpleasant, because 
you’ve been very good to Yolande all these years, 
but I must tell you, once for all, you must con- 
fine your attentions to her. Or,” he looked at 
her as if he were subtly measuring her, “I be- 
lieve I shall have to ask you to go away — to leave 
us. . . 

Miss Tibbit reddened. She had not expected 
this counter-move. She had never undergone the 
bitter experience of being dismissed; all her en- 
gagements had terminated pleasantly with mu- 
tual regret. And she had served Major Pascoe 
very faithfully for more than five years. She 
had guarded Yolande as if she had been her own 
child. And now he was actually suggesting that 
he might find it necessary to dismiss her. His 
words pierced her to the very heart. She blinked 
to keep back the slow scalding tears. Maxim 


40 


FINE CLAY 


Pascoe watched her quite calmly. He was en- 
joying his revenge. The feeling of getting some 
of his own back, as he would have expressed it, 
was delicately soothing. She had covered him 
with humiliation during their interview, and she 
had been mercilessly frank. He enjoyed the 
sense of giving back blow for blow. When she 
went away, finding no words with which to an- 
swer his menace, they both knew that the ultimate 
victory remained with him. He still retained 
the whip-hand of the situation. She could not 
send him away, but he could and certainly would 
send her away. She felt then that to part with 
Yolande would be the final tragedy of her life. 
She bowed her head, submitting to the inevita- 
ble. Never again did Tibby venture to remon- 
strate with Maxim Pascoe. She was afraid of 
the consequences which he had so clearly delin- 
eated. 


CHAPTER IV 


TV/T ajor Pascoe never again alluded to the pros- 
pect of parting with Miss Tibbit; she was 
careful not to give him any cause for doing so. She 
continued to act as amateur Providence to these 
two people. It was not an easy task, perhaps 
it was the most difficult she had ever set herself 
to do, but she was a brave woman and well-fitted 
for it. Being pious she invoked the aid of many 
saints to assist her with their prayers. She ex- 
ercised a wary vigilance over both Maxim Pascoe 
and his daughter. Her plain speaking had not 
been without effect. For the time he went no 
further down the hill. He hid the absinthe from 
Yolande, and if he still drank it he drank secretly. 
Miss Tibbit watched this slight effort at reform 
with approbation. But she was mortal and 
could not be in two places at once. Her untiring 
vigilance baffled the devil who sought to devour 
her employer; that Prince of Darkness therefore 
turned his attentions to the little Yolande. 

“Is that Major Pascoe’s little girl — grown out 
of all knowledge, Tibby?” said a cool, velvet-like 
voice on the Plage. 

“Yes, Marquise — this is Yolande.” 

Yolande took the slim hand in its dainty glove 
of pale suede and made a little reverence, as the 

41 


42 FINE CLAY 

young French girls do to an older woman of 
higher rank. 

Looking up she saw a very charming sight. 
The Marquise de Solignac was an Englishwoman 
of the most cosmopolitan kind. She was very 
beautiful, with wonderful hair of a warm red gold 
and eyes that were almost violet. She was a per- 
son who set fashions rather than followed them. 
She was beautiful in a very unusual way. Few 
people could pass her in the street without turn- 
ing to look at her. In the first place she was 
extremely tall and her coloring was so vivid that 
it was conspicuous. She tried to subdue it by 
wearing black or white or neutral tints, but they 
only served to enhance that wonderful fairness 
of hers. She had been a widow now for some 
years, and although she was still a year or two 
short of forty, her only daughter (who had once 
been Tibby’s pupil) was already married. The 
Marquise was a very rich woman and she had a 
passion for traveling in which she was able to in- 
dulge to her heart’s content. She had houses or 
apartments almost all over the world. That was 
another whim. She had flats in New York and 
St. Petersburg, a bungalow in Ceylon among the 
mountains of Kandy where she was fond of win- 
tering, a villa in Italy, an hotel in Paris, and 
lastly — perhaps the least important of all — the 
Villa Falaise a few miles outside of Boulogne. 

Since her daughter’s marriage she came sel- 
dom to Boulogne, and until this meeting on the 
Plage she had not seen Miss Tibbit for some 
years. But they corresponded occasionally, and 
the Marquise was aware that she was still acting 


FINE CLAY 


43 


as governess to Major Pascoe’s little girl. She 
thought of Yolande — if she ever thought of her 
at all — as still quite a little girl. She did not 
care for Major Pascoe, whom she knew but 
slightly. But she was very capricious in her 
friendships, and there and then she took a fancy to 
the grave, dark-eyed girl who bent over her hand 
and made a graceful little reverence. 

Perhaps it would have been better for Yolande 
if she had not done so. 

“She is nearly eighteen now, Marquise,” added 
Tibby. She hated to think that the girl was too 
old to require a governess. Yet the lessons still 
went on daily from sheer force of habit. 

“You must come and see me at the Villa 
Falaise,” said the Marquise. Her voice was, Yo- 
lande thought, the most beautiful she had ever 
heard. It was low and soft and thrilling, like 
music. 

“Oh, I should love to come,” she said eagerly. 

“Come to-morrow, then,” said the Marquise 
carelessly. “Breakfast is at twelve. I have a 
few people coming and we shall play tennis after- 
wards. Do let her have a half-holiday, Tibby.” 
And she smiled at them both and went forward 
to greet another friend who was just approaching 
her. 

It was a very hot summer that year when Yo- 
lande celebrated her eighteenth birthday. Maj or 
Pascoe had a bad heart attack, and in consequence 
Tibby did not accompany Yolande to the Villa 
Falaise, but sent her alone in a fiacre with many 
injunctions as to how she was to behave. She 
had some scruples about letting her go at all, for 


44 


FINE CLAY 


she could remember the very perfunctory sur- 
veillance which the Marquise had meted out to her 
own daughter. Still, she reflected, not much 
harm could be done in a single afternoon, spent 
for the most part in vigorous games of tennis. 

Major Pascoe was in bed; he looked extremely 
wretched and his annoyance was increased by the 
fact that he had done nothing to bring on an 
attack. There had not been the slightest impru- 
dence, and here he was lying like a log. He was 
always very sorry for himself and extremely 
alarmed at his own condition. 

Miss Tibbet, who was a born nurse, tended 
him exactly as if he had been a sick and fretful 
baby. 

“Extremes, my dear Tibby, are the devil!” he 
said with an assumption of his old jauntiness. 
“You must blame the thermometer this time! I 
have been to bed almost with the sun these last 
three weeks. I have drunk nothing but the con- 
tents of syphons.” Green in the face he was yet 
a brave and gallant figure. 

Tibby nursed him with much solicitude. Her 
eight years’ faithful and limpet-like devotion had 
made her as necessary to him as to Yolande. And 
he was not an easy patient to manage. 

“Where’s Yolande? Why aren’t you barking 
at her heels this afternoon?” he inquired. 

She looked up placidly from her knitting. 

“She’s lunching with Madame de Solignac. I 
told her to come home in good time for dinner,” 
she answered slowly. 

He liked to see her sitting there, vigilant, pre- 
pared, competent. These attacks came on so 


FINE CLAY 


45 


suddenly, made you feel afraid to be left alone. 
Yet at times he was ashamed to make such de- 
mands upon Tibby’s time and strength, though 
it was comforting to have her at hand to arrange 
his pillows, to raise him when he was gasping for 
breath, to administer food and the fizzy contents 
of syphons. 

“I don’t care for her to go alone to places,” she 
added. “Still they are to play tennis, and the 
exercise and fresh air will be beneficial.” 

“Oh, she’ll be all right there. You needn’t fret 
about her,” he said. 

“We met the Marquise yesterday — she seemed 
surprised to find Yolande so grown-up. I think 
she took a fancy to her,” said Tibby. 

The Major smiled. 

“There’s not another girl to touch her in 
Boulogne,” he said with a pardonable pride. 

To Yolande, tall, willowy, and extremely 
dainty in a white dress of Tibby’s fashioning, 
the Marquise presented a young compatriot, 
Mr. Gifford Lumleigh, who was, she said, spend- 
ing a few weeks in Boulogne for the purpose of 
perfecting himself in the French language. 

Whether he made sufficient use of his other 
opportunities for acquiring the elusive Gallic 
idiom, it is perhaps not necessary to inquire, but 
on that particular afternoon his progress could 
not have been remarkable. He spoke only Eng- 
lish, and he spoke only to Yolande, and she an- 
swered him in her soft voice with its pretty touch 
of foreign accent. 

Gifford Lumleigh was then about three-and- 


46 


FINE CLAY 


twenty. He was a younger son with no very 
brilliant outlook. But he was extremely good- 
looking, and Yolande fell in love with him that 
very day, almost, it must be confessed, that very 
hour. 

He was tall — not so tall as her father, but with 
an upright, well-knit figure; his hair was light 
brown and crisped to the roots, his eyes were 
gray, and he had peculiarly long, black lashes 
which lent them depth and fire. When he smiled 
his eyes laughed as well as his mouth, and dimples 
showed in his firm, sunburnt cheeks. He looked 
very much alive — almost defiantly alive. 

It would be too much, perhaps, to say that he 
fell in love with Yolande that very afternoon, 
hut he found her singularly attractive. Al- 
though she was so young she was self-possessed 
and chic . He wondered who her people were. 
He asked her a few delicately- worded questions. 
People never found it hard to confide in Gifford, 
and Yolande had still all the frankness of an 
unsophisticated child. So he soon learned that 
she had lived almost all her life in Boulogne with 
her father, and that Tibby had also lived with 
them for eight years. Tibby was her darling 
old governess. She would have come to-day, 
only she had remained at home to look after 
Yolande’s father who was ill. Had Gifford 
been in the habit of offering promiscuous thanks- 
givings he would probably have made an act of 
gratitude for the chance absence of Tibby. And 
had he been aware of her personality that act 
would have increased a thousandfold in fervor. 
For then there would have been no strolling 


FINE CLAY 


47 


through the garden down to the sands, and sit- 
ting in the shadow of the wall watching the tiny 
waves curl and break on that shining smooth 
surface. Who was Mr. Gifford Lumleigh that 
he should make Yolande conspicuous through all 
that summer afternoon? 

They lived in a pension. No — they had never 
had a house or villa of their own. It must be 
charming to have a house like the Villa Falaise, 
with a beautiful garden sloping almost to the 
sea. And Boulogne generally suited her father, 
except in the very hot weather. No — she never 
went to balls. She did not think Tibby would 
approve. It was quite an event for her to come 
like this to the Villa Falaise. She very seldom 
went anywhere. From such timidly offered 
scraps of information Gifford soon learned 
a good deal about her, perhaps as much as he 
wanted to know. She did not really amuse him 
at all, but she was so pretty he felt that he could 
have sat there and looked at her forever. That 
hair of fine silken darkness demurely parted in a 
fashion then not in vogue, those deep eyes like 
brown pools at once dark and clear and withal 
unfathomable, that quivering smile, the small 
delicate features, the little hands and feet, the 
slim and long neck, all seemed to him to con- 
tribute to the singular perfection of her. Her 
white dress of embroidered muslin with its belt 
of folded blue ribbon was charmingly appro- 
priate. How could he guess the long hours of 
toil which that dress represented? Even Yo- 
lande herself scarcely knew that. Tibby ’s faith- 
ful fingers had put in every inch of it. She was 


48 


FINE CLAY 


a Catholic, this too she told him, and seemed a 
little surprised that he was not one. She had 
lived always in a Catholic country, and had 
never come in contact with Protestants; she but 
dimly realized that her father was not pratiquant , 
and had sometimes wondered why. The nov- 
elty of her position and of her life attracted Gif- 
ford, whose curiosity was always piqued by the 
unknown, the unexplored. He formed a mental 
picture of Papa — elderly, dignified, gray-haired, 
with a fine military bearing. Maxim’s name was 
unknown to him. He had only been a few days 
in Boulogne, and a friend, Dermot O’Neill, had 
introduced him to the Marquise. This was his 
first visit to the Villa Falaise. His hostess knew 
little of him except the fact that he was Lord 
Strode’s younger son, and she knew still less of 
his history. She took no interest in English af- 
fairs. 

When Gifford saw Major Pascoe for the first 
time on the Plage a few days later it gave him 
something of a shock. The dimmed blue eyes 
and slightly restored hair — this was a new de- 
parture — caused him a keen pang of disappoint- 
ment. He tried to fit in that debonair yet dam- 
aged figure at Merrywood, and it refused to fit 
in anywhere. To introduce that man at home! 
The thought suddenly showed him how far he 
had already traveled in dreams along the matri- 
monial road. The bare idea made his heart sink. 
He could imagine his father regarding Major 
Pascoe with the cold and bleak smile with which 
he invariably welcomed the unhonored and pos- 
sibly self-invited guest. Lord Strode was a man 


FINE CLAY 


49 


with a tongue. Even Gifford was afraid of 
it. More than anything else in the world he 
feared that mocking irony. Many times he had 
emerged raw from its application. Yolande was 
beautiful, charming and desirable, but she did 
not belong to his world. He had no ambition 
to marry a girl who needed explaining. “The 
daughter of that dreadful Pascoe man at Bou- 
logne !” That was how she would be quite inevi- 
tably described. 

The Marquise de Solignac was a complaisante 
hostess. She liked to have young people about 
her, and like most women, she enjoyed watching 
a love-affair and wondering what would come of 
it. Fate was extremely propitious to Gifford 
Lumleigh. His friend, O’Neill, was called sud- 
denly home, and therefore there was no one to 
answer any questions about him, and he had re- 
cently passed through a crisis which made him 
fear questions. The Marquise knew that he be- 
longed to a good, if recently ennobled, English 
family. She was aware that in England — her 
native land of which she knew so little and for 
which she cared so much less — it was permitted 
for a young man to choose and woo his own 
bride. She pitied Yolande for having such a 
disreputable father bent on ruining himself 
through the twin demons of gambling and ab- 
sinthe. And she encouraged the affair for she 
felt assured, in her ignorance, that it would be 
an excellent marriage for Yolande, and remove 
her at an early age from such disastrous and 
detrimental surroundings. Therefore, perceiv- 
ing with an experienced, astute, but tolerant eye 


50 


FINE CLAY 


the trend of affairs, she offered opportunities to 
the young couple for frequent meetings under 
the roof of the Villa Falaise. She was assisted 
in this benevolent intention by the fact that 
Tibby, still unsuspecting, was guarding with a 
necessary vigilance the convalescence of Major 
Pascoe, who was now able to take gentle exercise 
in the cool of the evening upon the Plage. 

The Villa Falaise stood square to the sea upon 
the lower spur of the cliff and just below the road 
that cut along it. Beyond the high garden-wall 
the wide sands stretched, hard, firm, golden. In 
the more sheltered parts of the garden hydran- 
geas and roses and fuchsias bloomed the summer 
through, and the flower-beds were rosy with 
begonias, and white with marguerite daisies. 
Later there would be chrysanthemums in soft 
blots of crimson and pink and gold. The house 
was painted white and was too square to be beau- 
tiful, only the casement windows and the gray 
wooden shutters broke the monotony of its walls. 
The high-pitched roof sloping steeply was of 
silvery gray slate. But it was comfortable and 
solid-looking. It knew the gray northern sea 
in all its moods; the laughing blue of its sum- 
mer ways ; the fierce wild anger of its spring and 
autumn tempests, the cold bright hard silver of 
its winter calm. The villa lay in an isolated 
position, quite apart from Boulogne and rather 
nearer to the little white village of St. Vincent, 
a fishing-hamlet where already giant hotels and 
painted chalets were beginning to spring up to 
satisfy the growing love of the Parisians for 
sea-bathing. From the back windows of Villa 


FINE CLAY 


51 


Falaise the lights of St. Vincent were plainly 
visible nestling under the foot of the cliff, and 
grouped along both of the low and grassy banks 
of the river which here cut its way through the 
sand and joined the sea. Further inland the 
gray arches of the aqueduct rose above the river, 
and there the trains could be seen passing to and 
from Paris, moving at night like dark and swift 
snakes illuminated with squares of pale orange 
fire. 

Nearly every afternoon through those days of 
royal June weather when the grass on the cliffs 
was bright as an emerald, and the wide pale 
sands ran out to meet a sea that was calm and 
blue as a lake, Yolande met Gifford Lumleigh 
at the Villa Falaise. Sometimes a few people 
gathered there for tennis; sometimes the Mar- 
quise left them in the garden to amuse each other, 
or urged them to go and sit by the sea. Yolande 
was looking pale and fagged, she affirmed; it 
was very trying for her to be pent up so much in 
hot Boulogne; the sea air would do her good. 
And nearly every evening when the beautiful 
twilight spread over land and sea like a delicate 
veil of ebony-blue, Gifford would walk home 
with her to the dingy little pension in a narrow 
side street off the Quai Gambetta. But one 
evening they left earlier than usual and he per- 
suaded her to climb with him to the top of the 
cliff, and walk home past the little chapel near 
the Calvary, and through the Rue de la Tour 
d’Odre. They stood in the little enclosure 
where the Calvary looks down upon the harbor, 
and for a few minutes both were silent. 


52 


FINE CLAY 


Far off the English cliffs lay mirage-like, 
bathed in a pool of sunlight half gold half crim- 
son, across a sea so calm that it seemed to be 
fashioned of some ethereal silver substance. 
Sea-gulls circled and poised in mid-air, their 
white scimitar shapes dividing the blue of sky 
and sea. Here and there the brown sail of a 
fishing-boat cut the shining silver as with a heavy 
blot; then a steamer passed, trailing its cloud of 
translucent black smoke. 

At their feet the cliff fell almost perpendicu- 
larly, clothed with vivid green verdure. Above 
them the Calvary, which watches the vessels that 
ply in and out of the busy port, stood sharply 
etched against the sky. Yolande glanced at the 
tortured Face and knelt to say a prayer. She 
had never come here without doing this, and the 
thought of Gifford being with her did not dis- 
turb her. He was so kind; he would under- 
stand. . . . And as she prayed she asked for his 
love. She knew now that she loved him; she 
knew that there had been born a new fear in her 
heart that he did not love her. And why should 
he love her? Yet it would have been perfect to 
win Gifford’s love. She trembled even as she 
knelt there, because she had formed her wish into 
words and laid it before the Crucified. She had 
a timid hope that this would sanctify what was 
already so sacred. . . . And he would never 
guess, never know, what she was whispering so 
low that her lips scarcely moved. She had never 
before felt so moved, so entranced, as she was by 
this wonderful new emotion. Always when she 
came here she had thought only of the prayers of 


FINE CLAY 


53 


the poor fisher- folk, the women in their white 
coifs and black dresses, who came here to pray 
for their men at sea. The place had held for her 
an atmosphere of tragic prayer, as if the very 
waves must be crying: “ Christ save him — 
Christ bring him back to me!” Often in days of 
tempest she had seen the little chapel quite full of 
praying, weeping women. Not when the sea lay 
calm as now, serene and mirror-like, a thing of 
beauty and peace, but when the storm-tossed 
waves dashed unrestrained upon the shore, fling- 
ing clouds of white spray high into the air, beat- 
ing against breakwater and lighthouse, and swal- 
lowing up the little fishing-boats that would never 
again return, with their proud red sails unfurled, 
into the harbor. Yes . . . the sea was the 
enemy as well as the friend; giving life and sus- 
tenance and then taking all away. Disparu en 
mer was the epitaph on many of those memorial 
wreaths within the little votive chapel. 

When she rose from her knees Gifford was 
looking at her. She turned a shade paler under 
the bright scrutiny of his eyes. 

“Aren’t they simply awful — those bead 
wreaths and artificial flowers?” he said, with an 
odd attempt to speak carelessly. 

But her face was very grave. 

“Perhaps . . . they do not seem so to me. 
Perhaps it is because I am accustomed to them. 
And I know some of the poor people who put 
them there — with tears and prayers. . . .” 

With tears and prayers . . . . He never knew 
quite what was in those words that moved him so 
strangely. Perhaps it was the soft shy way in 


54 


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which they were uttered. Perhaps it was the 
manner of her kneeling there — so simply, so 
naturally — to pray. He wondered what her 
prayer had been. But as she stood there in the 
fast-fading light Gifford knew that she had never 
seemed so beautiful to him before. He came a 
step towards her and held out his arms. 

“Come to me,” he said. His bps trembled ; his 
vision was blurred; he looked almost dazed. 
“Come . . . Yolande . . . my darling . . 

She stood there transfixed. This was a new 
Gifford — and was not this also a new earth, 
bathed and stained with the bright glory of the 
sunset? 

“Darling . . . darling ... I must speak 
... I must tell you. . . I love you more than all 
the world. Come close to me, Yolande. . . .” 

Then he came quietly up to her and took her 
in his arms. The next thing she knew was the 
touch of his lips on hers — a soft yet burning 
touch, wounding yet healing. “Beloved . . . 
beloved . . .” the evening air vibrated with the 
passion of that moment. Far off the gentle lap- 
lap of the waves on those smooth, golden sands — 
such little waves, with their curling crests so 
luminously white — reached her ears. Overhead 
a sea-gull flew past, uttering a shrill, frightened 
cry. And Yolande leaned against her lover, sup- 
ported by his arms, trembling and afraid, almost 
swooning with this strange fierce happiness that 
had taken possession of her. . . . 

“Why did you pray?” he said. “What were 
you praying for?” He longed to know the se- 
crets of that heart. 


FINE CLAY 


55 


But she looked up with a child’s simplicity. 

“I was praying that you might love me,” she 
said gravely. “You see ... I have been lov- 
ing you ... for quite a long time. . • .” 

Those kisses had frightened her; that intimate 
touch of love had been a rough thing of earth 
breaking in upon a dream that seemed sent from 
Heaven. Gifford’s arms were hard and power- 
ful; she was imprisoned in their embrace. She 
would have liked to creep away and kneel quite, 
quite alone in the little chapel, and think only of 
his words that had seemed so beautiful — “Be- 
loved . . . beloved ... I love you.” She had not 
needed anything but that — the assurance of his 
love. And had he not said that he loved her more 
than all the world? Surely this was enough; 
surely this must make her happy for ever. 

Then Gifford forgot wisdom and prudence, the 
tradition of his house, the clause in his grand- 
father’s will which should have made him turn 
away from her at the first whisper of love in his 
heart; he forgot the battered and damaged figure 
of Major Pascoe, forgot even the sharp malice 
of his father’s tongue, and asked Yolande to 
marry him. 

“But, of course, since we love each other,” she 
said simply. “When people love each other they 
marry, do they not?” She looked at him with 
wide eyes of innocence. 

“Not always, Yolande,” he said; “but some- 
times they marry when they do not love — and 
that is hell.” He ground his teeth and his eyes 
grew almost fierce behind their veil of black 
lashes. 


56 


FINE CLAY 


So she had taken for granted that they would 
be married, whereas to Gifford it had seemed only 
the reckless inevitable sequence to his mad mo- 
ment of self -betrayal. 

“Yolande,” he said hesitatingly, “do you really 
love me very much?” 

“Yes . . .” she said, her eyes downcast. She 
had freed herself and was standing in front of 
him, spent now with emotion; she looked like a 
little drooping flower. 

Gifford’s face was oddly set; he looked old for 
his years, worn with experience and perhaps em- 
bittered by it. His mouth was a little grim. 

“Do you love me enough to trust me?” he said. 

Over the sea towards England the sun was set- 
ting in a great pool of clear gold. The light of 
it touched Yolande’s face and hair. 

“It would be sad to love where you could not 
trust,” she answered. 

“Yes,” he said, “I think it would. So I want 
you to trust me enough to feel that I know what 
is best.” He paused. “You see, we can’t be 
openly engaged, Yolande. You mustn’t tell 
any one that we are going to be married. I mean 
... I shall have to go home first . . . and see 
my father and obtain his consent. I am abso- 
lutely dependent on him, and if he isn’t pleased 
he won’t give me any money — and we can’t marry 
without money. That is why I am going to ask 
you to keep it all a secret — our beautiful love — 
our promise to marry each other. You mustn’t 
tell the Marquise, or your father, or . . . or,” he 
hesitated, “or Tibby. I must go home first, and 
then I shall come back and claim you, and we will 


FINE CLAY 


57 


tell every one. . . ” His eyes darkened as they 
rested upon her; he would have kissed her again, 
but she drew away from him. It seemed to her 
as if something of the wonderful brightness had 
passed away from the sky, as if the wind that 
crept up the cliff from the sea was a little sad, a 
little chilling. 

“No,” she said, “do not kiss me, please. You 
should perhaps have spoken to your father first, 
and he would have written to mine, and then there 
would have been no need of secrets . . . and you 
would not have kissed me. . . .” 

“Oh, but that is only a silly French notion, 
Yolande,” he said. “We arrange things for our- 
selves in England. . . 

Yolande had a scruple. She was afraid of se- 
crets. It is true that she had never, during all 
the past wonderful week, spoken to Tibby of 
Gifford ; but then he had been only a dream-god, 
not a man who had said that he loved her, and 
held her in his arms, and kissed her many, many 
times. How could she keep this a secret from 
Tibby? And if Tibby questioned her, she could 
not possibly tell her an untruth. . . . Her pale, 
disturbed look smote Gifford with remorse. He 
felt alarmed. 

“What is it, dear Yolande?” he said. “What 
is the matter, my dearest dear?” 

He waited anxiously, miserably, for her an- 
swer. 

“But if your father objects to me, if he does 
not approve of our marriage and gives you no 
money, what will happen then?” She spoke in a 
quiet sweet way that touched him. 


58 


FINE CLAY 


“We should have to wait/’ he said firmly, “till 
he gave in. You would wait for me, wouldn’t 
you, darling?” 

Kisses, he felt, would have reassured her better 
than words. But he saw that she would permit 
no more kisses; there was something of the cold 
little statue about her, half loving, half reproach- 
ful, puzzled suddenly by the complicated laby- 
rinth of life’s ways. 

“I should not have said that I loved you,” she 
said; “that was the mistake. But you spoke so 
suddenly. No — we cannot be engaged. I have 
never had any secrets from dear old Tibby. I 
will not see you again till you have won your 
father’s permission.” She held her little head 
very high. “Now we will go home.” 

They walked back in silence. At the door of 
the pension she held out her hand and said good- 
by quite gravely, without a smile. 

“Shan’t I see you again?” he said dejectedly. 

“Oh, yes — when you come back, when every- 
thing is arranged.” 

“I can see,” he said miserably, “that you don’t 
trust me. I wonder what made you pray that I 
might love you?” 

“But it is not a question of trusting you,” she 
said. “You tell me you must ask your father’s 
permission, and that without it we cannot be mar- 
ried. So it is no use our being engaged or hav- 
ing a secret. But I think you have been wrong. 
You should have asked your father first, before 
you spoke of love. Before,” and her eyes looked 
very straight into his, “before you kissed me.” 

“I loved you too much,” he said. “I had to 


FINE CLAY 


59 


speak. When I saw you, kneeling there and 
praying with the sun on your hair, I had to speak. 
I wanted to make sure that you loved me — that 
all these days at the Falaise hadn’t been a foolish 
summer dream.” 

“Good-by,” she said again. 

He bent over her hand, touched it with his lips, 
and moved slowly and reluctantly away. 

It was his own fault, he told himself; he had 
been clumsy and spoiled the whole thing. But 
then he had expected her to be as simple and 
obedient as a child, ready to do just what he told 
her. It was the unexpected strength and firm- 
ness she had displayed which had at once sur<- 
prised and dismayed him. 


CHAPTER V 


Y olande meditated deeply all through the 
night upon the events of that golden June 
afternoon. A vague, yet disturbing sense of un- 
happiness and disquietude possessed her. She 
had sent Gifford away — probably if he were so 
eager to interview his father he would leave im- 
mediately for England; she had bade him fare- 
well coldly and proudly, and she wondered how 
long it would be before he would return and make 
her renew her promise to marry him. She 
would miss him. It would be sad to spend so 
many days — perhaps even weeks — without see- 
ing him. But she wished that she had not per- 
mitted those kisses. Her cheeks burned as she 
thought of it — that long passionate embrace when 
he had held her half-swooning in his arms. She 
almost wished it had been possible to die then, as 
in a beautiful dream. For then her happiness 
had been complete. She had prayed, and the 
answer to her prayer had come as if on swift 
wings. She had asked for Gifford’s love, kneel- 
ing on the stone steps of that wayside shrine, and 
almost as soon as she had risen to her feet he had 
told her that he loved her. She could hear him 
saying: “Come to me. . . . Come , Yolande , 
my darling . . . come close to me. ... I love 
you. . . .” The words had held for her all the 


FINE CLAY 


61 


magical music of the spheres. She trembled at 
the remembrance of it all. She was back on the 
cliff ; she saw the skies and the sands turning to 
crimson in that wonderful sunset ; she saw the lit- 
tle blue waves shivering as they broke foam- 
crested on the shore. And far off on the low 
horizon she could see the English cliffs lying 
luminously white between the gold of the sky and 
the strange silver-blueness of the sea. And Gif- 
ford had stood there — beautiful in her eyes as the 
Sun- God — telling her that he loved her in words 
of unimagined tenderness. 

No, she could not tell Tibby about the kisses. 
She felt that Tibby would blame Gifford. She 
might scold her, but she would be very angry with 
Gifford. And she would think it her duty to tell 
Major Pascoe, and he too would be angry with 
Gifford. Afterwards when he came back — when 
the engagement was announced — she would tell 
them both. But not now. . . . She felt almost 
as if she did not wish to see Gifford again ; she did 
not want him to look in her face and read there 
that she was ashamed. 

In the morning a note was brought to her. 
That, too, was done secretly. Gifford had given 
the concierge a gold piece to ensure this. She 
flushed to the roots of her hair at the man’s glance 
of sly intelligence and understanding; it seemed 
to soil her. Yet when she took it up to her room 
she kissed the writing on the envelope before she 
broke the seal. If she had expected a love-letter 
— and surely there would be some word of love in 
this, the first of all his dear letters ! — she was dis- 


62 


FINE CLAY 


appointed. Only a few words, cold, business- 
like, such as a stranger might have written. He 
was leaving Boulogne at once. She must not 
write to him, but he would write to her as soon as 
possible. He gave her no address, and as she had 
no idea who his father was, she could not have 
written to him even if she had wished to do so. 

A whole week passed and no news of him came. 
She avoided the Marquise, never seeking the hos- 
pitality of Villa Falaise. When one day Tibby 
suggested that they should walk out there in the 
afternoon, Yolande rather listlessly declined. 
The hot weather, she said, made her indolent. 
Tibby spoke quite sharply, rebuking her for sins 
of sloth. She did nothing now but “moon about” 
all day, Susan Tibbit severely informed her. 
Yolande bore the unaccustomed scolding with un- 
easy patience. She was afraid that Tibby might 
guess something was the matter. 

She kissed her. “Don’t be cross with me, 
please, Tibby dear,” she said coaxingly. “I’m 
all right really. It’s only the heat, and my room 
is so stuffy at night. When it gets a little cooler 
I’ll be as energetic as you like.” 

Tibby was quickly mollified. But she looked 
at Yolande rather searchingly. 

“You’re not feeling ill, dear?” she said anx- 
iously. 

“No — you silly old Tibby — of course I’m not !” 

“Your father’s talking of going to Paris; he 
wants us to go too,” said Miss Tibbit. 

“But we can’t afford it,” Yolande objected. 

“I’m afraid we can. He has plenty of money 
just now. And he says you can get some new 


FINE CLAY 


63 


frocks and hats to wear when you go to Villa 
Falaise.” 

“But I don’t really need them,” said the girl, 
turning rather white. “I don’t expect to go to 
the Villa Falaise again. The Marquise was talk- 
ing of taking a chalet at Terre Haute among the 
pine woods. She says she is tired of the glare 
from the sea.” She spoke rapidly, as if trying to 
hide her own embarrassment. 

“Well, anyhow, you’d better make up your 
mind to go to Paris,” said Tibby; “it’ll be a 
change — and it’s only for a few weeks.” 

“Oh, Tibby dear,” said the girl imploringly, “I 
don’t want to go away. Try and persuade him 
to stay here. . . .” 

Miss Tibbet looked steadily at Yolande. 

“Why, I thought you’d be so pleased,” she said 
calmly; “what’s the matter with you?” 

“Oh, nothing’s the matter,” said Yolande 
rather desperately; “only I’d rather be here.” 

Supposing Gifford returned and found her 
gone? The thought was unthinkable. . . . 

“You’re not still seeing that English boy you 
met at the Falaise?” said Tibby. 

She had drawn her bow at a venture. But 
that it had struck the mark was amply evidenced 
by its effect upon her victim. Yolande’s face 
was no longer pale ; it was aflame ; she only wished 
the floor would open and swallow her up, and 
hide those shameful burning blushes from the 
astute and penetrating eyes of Susan Tibbit. 

Tibby was merciless. The “dangerous age” 
was, in her opinion, anywhere between sixteen 
and twenty, and not, as more modern psycholo- 


64 


FINE CLAY 


gists affirm, the maturer one of forty. She fol- 
lowed up her triumph* 

“Do you think I haven’t got eyes, Yolande?” 
she said. 

The girl was silent. 

“It’s the first time you’ve ever been silly about 
any one, and I didn’t think you were very silly, or 
I should have spoken to you before. How long’s 
he going to stop?” 

“He’s gone,” said Yolande in a low, stifled 
voice; “he went away three days ago. ...” 

Would Tibby extract the confession of those 
mad secret kisses ? 

“And I hope he’ll stay away,” said Miss Tibbit 
briskly. “He was not one that meant anything 
— I could see that. You’re not waiting for him 
to come back, are you ?” 

What could she say? It seemed that in those 
three days — lonely letterless days — hope had been 
dying a slow, hard death in her heart. 

“Not fretting, are you?” said Tibby. 

She shook her head. 

“Don’t ask me, Tibby,” she said; “don’t ask 
me, please. I can’t tell you — I don’t know. 
We will go to Paris, if papa wishes it.” 

But Paris was not to be her destiny. The 
Marquise de Solignac, who had indolently ob- 
served the sudden departure of Mr. Lumleigh for 
England, had wondered if Yolande had had any 
share in it. The young man had seemed de- 
cidedly taken with her, and she had hoped that 
something might come of it. When she next met 
Yolande on the Plage she stopped her. 


FINE CLAY 


65 


It was a moment of agonized anxiety for Yo- 
lande, since Miss Tibbit was with her. But the 
Marquise was always tactful, and she knew that 
dear Tibby could be a dragon if she chose. Be- 
sides, the girl looked unusually pale, and her eyes 
were rimmed with dark bistre-colored shadows. 
She took compassion on her. 

“I’ve taken that chalet among the pine woods 
at Terre Haute,” she said; “it’s a charming little 
place and delightfully shady. It’s quite close to 
the dunes and the sea. Why don’t you come out 
there and spend a week with me, Yolande? I 
shall be going to-morrow!” 

“We are going to Paris, thank you, Marquise,” 
said Miss Tibbit, who was not sure, after all, 
that this intimacy with the Marquise was a 
desirable thing for Yolande. “Major Pascoe 
has made up his mind to go at the end of the 
week.” 

Although she was a very indolent and indiffer- 
ent woman the Marquise disliked intensely to be 
thwarted, even in quite little things. She was 
sure that Miss Tibbit was hostile to the plan of 
Yolande accompanying her to Terre Haute. 
Perhaps she had heard rumors of the brief flirta- 
tion between her charge and young Lumleigh, and 
considered that she had not exercised sufficient 
surveillance. She had had in the old days some 
disputes with Tibby on this point in regard to her 
own daughter. Her dark violet eyes flashed with 
a hint of temper. 

“But it will be far better for Yolande to have a 
little country air. Every one says it’s horribly 
hot in Paris now. It is just the moment for a 


66 


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little agreeable villegiature ,” and she smiled 
charmingly upon the girl. “ W ouldn’t you like to 
come with me, Yolande? It’ll be very dull, of 
course, only our two selves, but we can bathe and 
sit in the woods and do all kinds of nice idle 
things!” 

“I should like to come very much,” said Yo- 
lande, “perhaps papa would let me. I will ask 
him.” It was her very first overt act of rebellion 
against Tibby’s rule. 

“Ah, that is a very good idea,” said the Mar- 
quise; “and I will write a supplementary letter 
to Major Pascoe and tell him I must positively 
insist upon his letting you come. I shall look 
upon it as quite settled, then? Be ready to start 
at three.” She waved her hand in adieu. 

Yolande and Miss Tibbit walked back almost in 
silence. But when they entered the pension she 
followed the girl up to her bedroom. Yolande 
removed her gloves and hat in a weary listless 
manner. Tibby watched her. She wished to 
speak to her, and she did not quite know what to 
say. If Yolande could have confided in her then, 
her future might have been very different. But 
she was annoyed at being treated like a child ; she 
was vexed at Tibby’s authoritative attitude. It 
was absurd now that she was eighteen, and had 
had a proposal of marriage ! And Tibby, feeling 
the reins slacken in her hand, had a mind to pull 
the curb sharply. 

“I shall speak to your father, Yolande,” she 
said, “and ask him not to let you go to Terre 
Haute. You meet very undesirable people at 


FINE CLAY 67 

the Marquise’s, and she isn’t the least use as a 
chaperon.” 

“I want to go,” said Yolande, rather obsti- 
nately. She was fighting for that last chance of 
seeing Gifford, which would certainly be de- 
stroyed if she went to Paris. She did not care 
now if she hurt Tibby. The primitive woman 
was aroused and, child as she was, she meant to 
see Gifford at all costs if he displayed any wish 
to see her. And she was not going to be 
thwarted by Tibby. Her little white face indi- 
cated now a passionate mutiny. 

“You’re thinking if you go there you’ll be more 
likely to meet that Lumleigh boy again,” said 
Miss Tibbit. “You know nothing about him. 
If he had meant anything he would have come to 
see your father. And he did not come.” 

She had never had a scene with Yolande be- 
fore. But the girl’s very reticence seemed to 
spell danger. And she had heard that Mr. Lum- 
leigh was very good-looking. Probably he had 
been amusing himself, and Yolande was a mere 
baby, quite without knowledge of the world. 
Tibby was paying dearly for that period of re- 
laxed vigilance. But it was not too late to bring 
the episode to a sharp conclusion. 

“I’m not going to have you going there, Yo- 
lande,” she said. “You must please understand 
that.” 

“You can’t stop me, if papa gives me permis- 
sion to go,” said Yolande. 

“I shall go and speak to him.” 

She went out of the room. Yolande sat by the 


68 


FINE CLAY 


window and the tears gathered in her eyes. She 
hated to quarrel with Tibby whom she loved 
so fondly. She was sick with suspense awaiting 
the result of that interview. It seemed so long, 
so very long, before Tibby ’s firm and rather 
heavy tread sounded once more on the stairs. 
She came into the. room and noticed at once the 
traces of weeping on Yolande’s face. 

Yolande looked up. She felt too exhausted 
now to ask what the result had been. 

“Your father says you can go to Terre Haute 
to-morrow,” she said. Her voice sounded harsh. 
The interview had not been an agreeable one. 
Major Pascoe’s mind had been a little clouded by 
absinthe ; he had spoken in rather a maudlin man- 
ner of his poor little motherless girl who had so 
few pleasures. When Tibby began to argue he 
got quite angry. Between the two she could do 
nothing. She would have to stay alone in Bou- 
logne, wondering what mischief they were both 
getting into. It was not a pleasant prospect. 
She had tried to assert her authority and it had 
been of no avail. Yolande was a woman now; 
she must face the fact. And she was Major 
Pascoe’s daughter. 

“I’m sorry — that you are not pleased about 
it, Tibby,” said Yolande, feeling that her petty 
triumph was a trifle bitter to the taste. “But I 
do want to go so very much.” She rose and put 
out her arms, but Miss Tibbit drew a little away. 

“Don’t be silly, Yolande,” she said with some 
asperity. “You’ve got your own way and I hope 
it won’t hurt you in the end. Now I’d better 
look over your clothes.” She went to the chest of 


FINE CLAY 


69 


drawers and wardrobe and began to arrange the 
various articles of apparel on the bed. “Get 
your work-box — you can help me with these. I 
can’t let you go in rags.” She held up a newly 
washed white muslin dress. “I’ll look this over 
while you darn the stockings.” She was once 
more the governess, competent, authoritative 
and dictatorial. Yolande obeyed meekly. She 
wondered if she would still have to darn stockings 
when she was married. She had always hated 
sewing, nevertheless Tibby had never let her off 
this particular task and she was now extremely 
proficient at it. They both sat down and sewed 
in gloomy silence. 

On the following day at the appointed hour the 
Marquise de Solignac came to fetch her. And a 
little later Major Pascoe started alone for Paris, 
with many and deep feelings of gratitude towards 
his daughter’s hostess for having procured him an 
unexpected holiday, free from surveillance of any 
kind. 


CHAPTER VI 


T he Chalet des Pins at Terre Haute was cer- 
tainly a desirable place for a secluded vil- 
legiatura. It stood quite near the edge of the 
dark pine woods, and overlooked in furtive 
glimpses the white dunes and the sea beyond. 
Yolande had so seldom left Boulogne that the 
very prospect of the change excited her as if she 
had been a child. Moreover, she felt sure that 
when Gifford returned to France he would prob- 
ably at once repair to the Villa F alaise to obtain 
news of her, and would certainly be directed 
forthwith to Terre Haute where he would find 
her. She hoped perhaps that the Marquise 
would invite him to stay. There was plenty of 
room in the chalet. These agreeable dreams suf- 
ficed to make her radiantly happy for the first few 
days of her visit. 

She had plenty of liberty — more than she had 
ever had in her life before. She was allowed to 
roam about the woods and over the dunes, through 
the scrub of tamarisk and wild myrtle, where 
the long dark green grass was brushed by the 
sea-wind. Every morning before the mid-day 
dejeuner she and the Marquise bathed in the 
sea from a little wooden pavilion that had been 
built close to the shore. It was a charming little 
spot half-hidden by the pines. During the after- 


FINE CLAY 


71 


noon they generally retired for a siesta , and later 
there would be people driving over from Terre 
Haute to have tea in the shady garden. All 
these people — who were for the most part French 
— congratulated the Marquise upon her charming 
little guest. Some of the men paid her compli- 
ments and told her that she was beautiful. The 
women caressed her and afterwards regretted 
that she had no dot. It would be so difficult to 
find a husband for her, unless she went to Eng- 
land where daughters never received dots. On 
the whole, Yolande enjoyed her first taste of 
emancipation excessively. She was beginning, 
almost unknown to herself, to resent Tibby’s rule. 
But they had never come into actual collision 
until this visit to Terre Haute had been mooted. 
Then Yolande had very quietly fought for her 
own. If it had not been for the thought of Gif- 
ford she would probably have submitted with her 
usual docility to Tibby’s fiat. But the very pos- 
sibility of his coming and not finding her in Bou- 
logne, and learning perhaps that she had gone to 
Paris, had roused her latent obstinacy. 

A week, ten days, passed in agreeable mo- 
notony at the Chalet des Pins, and no news had 
come of Gifford. Yolande tried to view the situ- 
ation calmly, assuring herself that he was in duty 
bound to obey his father in all things. She had 
insensibly acquired something of the French view 
of marriage, and of the paramount necessity of 
obtaining the parental consent before one could 
be arranged. She was not aware that such condi- 
tions did not prevail in England. 

But the very fact of waiting and the suspense 


72 


FINE CLAY 


it involved told upon her. Deep in her heart she 
knew that she loved Gilford, and she felt that 
that heart would break if he never came back. 
She could not envisage the prospect of a perma- 
nent separation from him. He must come back 
— even if it were only to tell her of the futility of 
his errand, of his father’s insurmountable ob- 
duracy. She bore the trial patiently and se- 
cretly, nevertheless she suffered severely. Her 
eyes were heavy with sleeplessness, the lips that 
Gifford had kissed into silence had a determined 
expression that seemed to change her to a sudden 
maturity. That brief love episode, at once thrill- 
ing and bitter-sweet, had left its mark. She 
made one or two abortive efforts to tell the Mar- 
quise, and failed. It would have been, however, 
much easier to tell her than to confide in Tibby. 

But her malady of soul increased as the days 
wore on. The very remembrance of Gifford tor- 
tured and shamed her. He had won her love 
too easily — and then had left her. What was 
there in her that his parents could not accept? 
Herein lay a new source of humiliation. Her 
first personal experience of love had so far proved 
a bitter one, taking, as it seemed to her now, all 
the magic color from sea and sky, and leaving 
only a gray and solitary desolation. The image 
of Gifford filled her thoughts. When she walked 
alone on the dunes or by the sea-shore she visu- 
alized him with such accuracy that it almost 
seemed as if he were walking beside her. She 
could see his strong yet slim and upright figure, 
the handsome face alternately so bright and so 
gloomy with sudden bitter sullenness; the black 


FINE CLAY 


73 


fringe of lashes that gave his eyes such an uncom- 
mon and peculiar look, the bronzed face and 
hands, the crisped thick hair. It was difficult to 
believe now that he loved her, that he had asked 
her to marry him and assured her of his adora- 
tion. That Come close to me, Yolande , my dar- 
ling, must have been spoken to some other woman 
in some other life. Not by him; not to her. . . . 
His silence showed the necessity for prudence, 
and demonstrated most clearly his father’s dis- 
pleasure. Yolande knew nothing then of the 
house of Strode, its complications, its feuds, its 
enmities. She began to feel quite sure that he 
would never return ; she told herself, indeed, that 
she had ceased to expect him. And perhaps in 
time she would learn to forget that mad moment 
of love on the cliffs overhanging the sea. . . . 

“Yolande,” called the Marquise, breaking in 
abruptly upon her reverie. “Where are you? 
Are you not coming down to tea?” 

Yolande came slowly into the garden. Her 
hostess was alone, presiding over a tea-table that 
was truly English. It was perhaps the one re- 
maining evidence of her nationality of which she 
had so little trace. 

“Am I late ?” She sat down by her side. 

“No, you’re not late,” said the Marquise laugh- 
ing at her serious expression. “Only I’ve got a 
piece of news for you. I have had a letter from 
your friend, Mr. Lumleigh. . . .” 

She watched the girl with lazy amusement, and 
was rather horrified to notice she had grown so 
white that she looked for all the world as if she 
were about to faint. 


74 


FINE CLAY 


“You know I thought he was in love with you 
and that you had refused him, as he ran off like 
that to England without saying good-by to any 
one. Well, he is coming back to Boulogne. 
And he asks most especially after you. Do you 
wish to see him again? Would you like me to 
ask him here? Don’t be afraid of Tibby — she 
need never know!” And she laughed mischie- 
vously. 

Yolande’s heart beat so suffocatingly that she 
felt its throb must be audible across the brief si- 
lence that followed. 

“Yes,” she said; “I ... I should like to see 
him again. ...” The words sounded cold and 
formal. 

The Marquise looked at her with her pretty 
violet eyes. 

“But you mustn’t fall in love with him, Yo- 
lande,” she said; “he is a younger son, and the 
elder brother will have all the money. And you 
haven’t got a dot , so that would make it even more 
difficult.” 

Yolande was saying to herself : “But he loves 
me — he loves me.” She forgot to answer the 
Marquise. 

“But I believe you are the magnet that has 
drawn him back to Boulogne,” continued the 
Marquise. “Only don’t forget what I’ve just 
told you.” 

“I will remember,” said Yolande. 

The sky and the sea had become blue again; 
the sun was shining with white glare upon the 
dunes. The pinetrees spread bows of ardent 
green against the sky. It was a beautiful world, 


FINE CLAY 


75 


and the Chalet des Pins was surely the most 
beautiful place in it. For it was here that Gif- 
ford was coming back to her. How could she 
bear that meeting so long delayed, so passion- 
ately desired ? Would not the j oy of it kill her ? 


CHAPTER VII 


4 i A Miss Pascoe? Charming, I am sure. By 
the way, who are the Pascoes?” 

Lord Strode adjusted his monocle very care- 
fully, and regarded his son with bland amusement 
in his piercing light eyes. 

Who at the age of twenty-three, passionately in 
love and with the echo of loving vows still ringing 
in his ears, can endure not to be taken seriously? 
A man who has held the beloved woman in his 
arms resents being treated as a love-sick school- 
boy. 

Gifford flushed to the roots of his crisped hair. 

“They are — the Pascoes, I suppose,” he re- 
turned sullenly. 

“Bien entendu ,” said Lord Strode encourag- 
ingly. “What is her father?” 

“He is Major Pascoe — I think he was in the 
Army.” 

“Retired?” Lord Strode appeared to be dock- 
eting these nice points in a mental category. 

Gifford assented. 

“And living in Boulogne, possibly for eco- 
nomical reasons?” 

“I . . . believe so. . . .” 

“In a pension , perhaps?” pursued Lord Strode, 
who liked to follow an attractive line of thought 
in detail to its logical conclusion. “One of those 

76 


FINE CLAY 77 

charming little places with a view sideways of the 
sea?” 

“Yes,” admitted Gifford, his face growing 
every moment more sullen and gloomy. 

“And the mother?” 

“She’s dead,” said Gifford. 

“ De Mortuis^ said Lord Strode generously. 
“Let us return to the father. He encouraged the 
affair, I take it — despite your tender youth which 
should have pleaded for mercy?” 

“I never met him. I only saw him on the 
Plage. He did not encourage or discourage. I 
don’t suppose he’s ever heard my name!” 

“Ah, you conducted the affair sub rosa?” 

His tone of light irony flicked Gifford like the 
touch of a teasing whip. He was silent. 

“What do you want me to do?” said Lord 
Strode. 

“I want you to give me a decent allowance — 
enough to marry on. I want to settle down. I 
... I love Miss Pascoe. I want to marry her. 
And she loves me. Of course we cannot marry 
without money !” 

“My dear Gifford,” said Lord Strode, “I. am 
sure that you did your very best to protect your- 
self from this young woman — and her attentions. 
Your masterly avoidance of her father does you 
great credit. I congratulate you. Although 
you have not always shown evidence of good 
taste as regards beauty and refinement, and so 
forth — I am willing to admit that you are making 
progress in prudence. Well, you are safely at 
home again. We will waive for the moment the 
desirability of your studying French. It seems 


78 


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to be a task beset with quite unusual difficulties — 
and dangers. ... You will, I hope, remain here 
for the present. While you are at home enjoy- 
ing my hospitality you will not require even your 
usual allowance.” 

“But father,” protested Gifford, “y° u don’t 
seem to understand. I have asked her to be my 
wife. She is waiting for me to go back! We 
are engaged. Can’t you understand this?” 

“I understand so perfectly,” said Lord Strode, 
“that I am taking these precautions to ensure the 
pleasure of your company here for several months 
to come. Johnson” (Johnson was the old nurse 
now very aged and decrepit) “is, alas! too old to 
go about with you. I prefer to have you under 
my own eye.” 

Gifford lost his temper and blazed out : 

“You can’t do it! I’d rather starve in the 
streets than stay here! I’m going back to her, 
and we shall be married whether you give your 
consent or not!” 

Lord Strode’s thin lips were set in a very pleas- 
ant line. 

“Kindly leave the room,” he said. “I forbid 
you to speak to me like that.” 

His cold, pale eyes gleamed dangerously. 
The look quelled Gifford more than the words. 
He was afraid of his father. Sullen with anger 
he turned and marched out of the room, the hot 
tears searing his eyes. 

He went up to his own rooms at the top of the 
house. The valet had just finished putting away 
his things after unpacking them. When the man 
had gone Gifford sat down by the window. His 


FINE CLAY 


\l 

It 

79 

bedroom was at the back and looked over the Sus- 
sex Downs. He had always had the same room 
ever since he was quite a little boy. One could 
have traced the growth of Gifford from the store 
of possessions it contained. He kept his books 
there, too, and a huge bookcase contained nearly 
all he had ever possessed in the way of literature, 
ranging from the “Coral Island” and the “Alice 
in Wonderland” of his youth, to the latest and 
muddiest French novel. Of recent years he had 
been given the adjoining apartment for a study. 

He had fifty pounds left. That would at least 
take him back to France. He longed more than 
ever to see Yolande again. Her beautiful pres- 
ence would console him. He would defy his 
father and go back to her in spite of all things, 
and renew his passionate promises, and marry 
her. . . . 

As he sat there, immersed in these thoughts, the 
door opened and his brother Reginald came into 
the room. 

Reginald was about four years older than Gif- 
ford, and resembled his father in a very marked 
degree. Naturally extremely like him, he had 
sought to increase the resemblance by imitating 
him as closely as possible. He was a younger 
replica of Lord Strode, but Gifford considered 
him even more disagreeable and repellent and 
malicious. 

“Hullo, Gifford! Turned up again? I hear 
you’ve been making an ass of yourself with a girl 
at Boulogne!” 

Lord Strode had evidently lost no time in ac- 
quainting his favorite son with the details — as far 


80 FINE CLAY 

as he knew them — of Gifford’s latest amorous ad- 
venture. 

Gifford did not reply. He disliked his brother 
intensely, but, as a rule, he was prudent enough 
to avoid quarreling with him. 

“I suppose you’ve written all sorts of d d 

silly things to her?” continued Reginald suavely. 

“That is my business. You’re not the censor 
of my correspondence.” 

Reginald, unrebuffed, took a seat by the win- 
dow opposite to his brother. 

“I’ve come to see if I can do anything to get 
you out of the scrape.” 

“I’m not in any scrape,” said Gifford passion- 
ately; “and if I were I shouldn’t come to you for 
assistance !” 

“I’m here at father’s request,” said Rex im- 
perturbably; “he told me that you were in a very 
rude, unreasonable mood. He said he simply 
ached to box your ears !” 

“I wish,” said Gifford, “that you would go 
away and leave me alone.” 

Rex cleared his throat. 

“Now do tell me all about this Pascoe girl, 
Gifford,” he said. “Where on earth did you 
meet her in Boulogne? And will money keep 
her quiet? We’re rather fed up with having 
your name in the papers, you know.” 

Gifford sprang to his feet. He clenched his 
fists ; his face was crimson. 

“Don’t dare mention her, Rex ! I forbid you 
to speak of Miss Pascoe ! I forbid you to men- 
tion her name!” 


FINE CLAY 


81 


Rex rose too. He did not quite like Gifford in 
this violent mood. As a rule, he was more sullen 
and gloomy than actively passionate. Just now 
he had looked as if he might have attacked him. 
The thought was incredible. He was a stronger 
and heavier man than Rex. 

“Keep quiet, please,” he said. “Try and dis- 
cuss this reasonably. Father says he is quite pre- 
pared to ” 

“We don’t want his money! You can tell him 
so! We ... we love each other! She has 
promised to be my wife.” 

“How much have you told her?” inquired Rex, 
unmoved by this fresh outburst of fury. 

“I have told her — nothing. I am going to 
marry her. I don’t care what any one says. . . .” 

“Oh, yes — I quite understand. We have 
heard you say these things before. It’s the very 
monotony that leaves us cold! But you forget 
how costly these things can be. Is she the kind 
of woman to open her mouth very wide?” His 
lips were parting in a singularly aggravating 
smile. 

“I wish,” said Gifford with fervor, “that I 
could close yours for good!” 

“If you shout so, Lamorna will hear you,” said 
Rex; “she’s sitting in the garden. Or you will 
wake her brat, and then she will never forgive 
you.” 

Gifford’s attention was momentarily turned 
from the subject in hand. 

“I didn’t know Lamorna was here,” he said, 
“and I didn’t know she had got a brat.” 


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FINE CLAY 


“A very important brat,” said Rex. “He will 
be Lord Strode if you and I die without heirs. 
Lamorna is quite aware of his importance.” 

“As you are bent on staying here I think I will 
go into the garden and talk to Lamorna,” said 
Gifford. “By the way, where’s mother? I 
haven’t seen her since luncheon.” 

“Probably lying down. You’ve upset the 
whole household,” said Rex coolly. “But I 
shouldn’t go and worry Lamorna if I were you. 
She has not properly got over Sydney’s death — 
and then the birth of this posthumous son ” 

“Oh, I see,” said Gifford. “But you needn’t 
be afraid. I shan’t worry her. Lamorna was 
always a good sort.” 

He went whistling downstairs. Why had she 
not appeared at lunch? He liked Lamorna, and 
he was glad that she was staying at Merrywood. 
He thought he would go and talk to her, and per- 
haps presently tell her about Yolande and ask 
her advice and sympathy. 

During that heated interview with his father, 
which had taken place almost immediately after 
luncheon on the day of his return home, Gifford 
had never had the courage to mention the fact 
that Yolande was a Catholic. There seemed, in- 
deed, no reason why he should add anything 
gratuitously to the already sufficient sum of her 
entire unsuitability to mate with a member of the 
house of Strode. His grandfather, a statesman 
and a peer of the Victorian age, had left a special 
clause in his will to the effect that the estates were 
never to pass into Roman Catholic hands. The 


FINE CLAY 


83 


motive for this had lain in the fact that he had 
had a younger son by his second marriage, who 
had become a Catholic as soon as he reached his 
majority, had entered the Society of Jesus, and 
had died a missionary in China. His name had 
been obliterated from the annals of the family ; so 
great a disgrace had he in their eyes brought to a 
name so recently honored. This first Lord Strode 
had been a man of but one violent hatred, and that 
was directed against the Catholic Church. 
Neither money nor lands could thus pass into 
the hands of a Catholic. But beyond this solitary 
instance of Father John Lumleigh there had 
never been the least inclination on the part of 
any member of the family to jeopardize the said 
fortunes through religious caprice. Not that 
this disqualification on Yolande’s part had consti- 
tuted much of an obstacle in Gifford’s eyes. He 
was the younger son, and he had never pictured 
himself as a possible future inheritor of the 
family honors. His inferior position had been 
impressed upon him always, all his life, by both 
his father and Rex. With his mother he was 
more of a favorite, but she was a meek mouse 
of a woman extremely gentle and tender-hearted, 
and she had never had the courage to take Gif- 
ford’s part openly against the tyranny of her 
husband and son. So that he had always realized 
that he was a Nobody, while Rex was a Some- 
body. If he had ever shown any disposition to 
ignore the fact as a boy a sharp reminder had al- 
ways been promptly forthcoming. Lady Strode 
wept in secret over the harsh treatment meted out 
to her bright handsome younger son; she saw 


84 


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him grow up sullen, secretive, and bitter, and she 
was powerless to remedy these defects with the 
kindness and sympathy she longed to show him. 
She was afraid of her husband, and now she was 
almost as much afraid of Rex. And she was 
paying for her past timorousness by the fact that 
she had now completely forfeited Gifford’s con- 
fidence. She had never dared openly to ally 
herself with him. When he had been very 
severely punished by his father as a boy she had 
never had the courage to interfere. She had suf- 
fered almost as much as he did from those cruel 
blows, yet she had never told him so. 

She was a little, delicate, careworn woman, 
looking more than her fifty years. She had 
gentle blue eyes and mouse-colored hair, and a 
rather lined, sad face. Her spirit had been 
broken long ago. She had loved her husband 
once, but he had never loved her. She had a 
large fortune of her own, but it was all in his 
hands. She was alienated from her two sons. 
Thus she had lost even the prizes which fortune 
had intended should be hers. No woman had 
ever perhaps had so much and yet so little. All 
with her had turned to failure. All that was 
sweet had turned to bitterness. Lord Strode had 
consistently bullied her, as men will sometimes 
bully a naturally docile woman, and it had 
crushed her. There was no more unhappy 
woman in the whole of Merrywood than the great 
lady at the Place. 


CHAPTER VIII 


M rs. Sydney Lumleigh was staying at the 
Place when Gifford returned, although a 
headache had prevented her from being present 
at luncheon on the day of his arrival. She had 
been for about eight months a widow, and her 
baby son Robin was just six months old. He 
was her only child. She had married the cousin 
who stood next to Lord Strode’s own sons in the 
matter of succession. Therefore, as the mother 
of Robin, she had recently been raised in Lord 
Strode’s eyes to a position of some importance in 
the family. 

She was still young, perhaps about twenty- 
four, and she was rather graceful and artistic- 
looking with quantities of soft brown hair, a 
densely white skin, and green eyes that were clear 
and shining as jewels. But she was not really 
pretty ; her nose was blunt, her mouth large, and 
her cheek-bones were too prominent. It was be- 
lieved that she intended at some future date to 
marry Reginald; but it was doubtful if he had 
ever observed her with anything but a critical and 
possibly condemnatory eye. 

Her husband, Sydney Lumleigh, had been an 
artist, and his art had perhaps suffered, in spite 
of its courage, from the pervading decadence of 
the nineties. He had been a small, dark, delicate- 

85 


86 


FINE CLAY 


looking, bearded man, who looked like a French- 
man. He would use his hands in rapid and ef- 
fective gesticulation. He painted unwholesome 
portraits of unwholesome-looking men and 
women; in his day he was considered revolution- 
ary, but at the present time he might have suf- 
fered contempt at the hands of the Futurists. 
Such a marriage had brought out, crystallized, 
and confirmed all that was strange and unconven- 
tional in his wife. She was very delicate and she 
wrote — always on the sofa — tender and beauti- 
ful, if amorous, verses, such as were beginning to 
be fashionable in the early nineties. They were 
as decadent in their way as her husband’s pictures, 
but they had a vogue, and in her own circle she 
had something of the authority of an ancient 
priestess. Her husband had adored the poet in 
her almost as much as he adored the woman. 
They both wished for a child, and yet Sydney had 
never lived to see his little son. 

Lord Strode, who was of the type of cold, 
proud, conventional Englishman, disliked in- 
tensely those slim green volumes of verse — with a 
weird cover-design and frontispiece by Sydney 
— which yearly found their way, suitably in- 
scribed, to the Place. He always hid them away 
at the back of the top shelves in his library. He 
wondered that Sydney should permit his wife to 
publish her feelings in this way. But then, he 
would remind himself, they belonged to a horrible, 
artistic, Bohemian set. Impressions are not 
easily erased, and he had once paid a visit accom- 
panied by his wife to their house in Chelsea. The 
dimly-lit room was occupied by a number of un- 


FINE CLAY 


87 


conventionally dressed men and very weirdly at- 
tired women, all grouped round Lamorna, who 
wore a shapeless white Greek garment and 
sandals. There were also present an un whole- 
some-looking man, who was said to be in a trance, 
and a lady-medium of redoubtable appearance. 
Lord Strode stayed exactly five minutes and re- 
fused all offers of refreshment. The episode had 
threatened to estrange him permanently from 
these cousins. 

But Lamorna Lumleigh was au fond thor- 
oughly worldly, and at her husband’s death she 
quickly emancipated herself from this circle of 
friends. She wore the conventional attire of 
widowhood with scarcely a hint of the picturesque 
to mitigate its severity. With the advent of 
Robin the slim green volumes of verse ceased for- 
ever. She appealed to Lord Strode to help her 
with her affairs. An invitation to the Place for 
herself and Robin was gratefully and mournfully 
accepted. She quickly won the heart of Lady 
Strode, but not, it is to be feared, that of Reg- 
inald. Even in her deep mourning she was too 
peculiar-looking for his taste, and he disliked the 
color of her eyes. He preferred a simpler type. 
But, on the whole, the visit was proving a suc- 
cess. Lord Strode had a clannish feeling which 
made him welcome any one within reason who 
could claim kinship. And there was Robin. 
That was something which could not be over- 
looked, since Gifford’s affairs always spelt dis- 
aster, and Reginald had never shown the slight- 
est disposition to marry. 

When Gifford advanced across the terrace 


88 


FINE CLAY 


from the house he saw Lamorna sitting under the 
velvet-green shade of the superb cedar-trees, for 
which the Place was famous. She put down her 
book, and looking up, noticed his handsome 
gloomy, sullen face. 

“What is the matter, Gifford?” she asked. 

He stopped in front of her. Yes — he was cer- 
tainly good-looking, but his expression was 
marred by ill-temper. She had gathered during 
her short stay that he was the Black Sheep, with- 
out which so few families can aspire to complete- 
ness. 

“Everything’s the matter,” he answered sul- 
lenly. He sat down in a wicker chair piled up 
with soft cushions and leaned back in it. She 
felt that she would have liked to stroke his hair, 
caress him back into a good humor, as an in- 
dulgent mother will caress a fretful child. 

“Do tell me!” she said, and smiled. 

Her smile was much too wide for beauty; still, 
it was pleasant and kindly. 

“I’m in disgrace,” he said briefly. 

“What, again?” said Lamorna. 

He would have resented that “again” in any 
one else, but Lamorna was never malicious. 

“Yes — again,” he admitted. 

There was silence. A twig dropped on the 
green and smooth turf; they both heard it fall, 
the silence of the summer afternoon was so deep. 

“They’re making a row because I want to 
marry a girl I met abroad,” he said. 

Mrs. Lumleigh’s eyes were fixed upon him at- 
tentively, bright, glowing, jewel-like. 

“Some one they think unsuitable?” she said in 


FINE CLAY 


89 


the manner of one who hazards a tentative sug- 
gestion. She had known so many charming, in- 
teresting, wholly unsuitable people. Delightful 
people, whose standards differed so surprisingly 
from those of the orthodox conventional world, 
that she had been obliged to recognize regretfully 
that it was undesirable to bring the two camps 
into contact with each other. She, a deserter, 
looked back sometimes with longing upon those 
companions of former days. Poets who raved 
over her versejs and recited them in strange 
venues. Journalists who wrote ecstatic reviews 
of those very verses. Long-haired musicians 
who literally sang her praises in strange songs 
dedicated to her. 

“They’d think almost any one unsuitable,” said 
Gifford, with a frown. 

Mrs. Lumleigh felt a keen personal interest 
in this remark. Although she had loved Sydney 
very much, and did not love Reginald at all, she 
sincerely believed that it would be a good thing 
to marry him after a decent interval of mourning. 
She began to wish that Lord Strode had never 
seen her offering hospitality to a young man ad- 
dicted to trances, nor to golden-haired mediums 
of dubious respectability. She wished, too, that 
she had been less generous in the distribution of 
those green volumes of verse, and that Sydney’s 
art had adhered to the Millais convention. 

“Oh!” she said a little startled. “But then 
Reginald has never given them any trouble in 
that way.” 

“He knows better,” said Gifford sullenly; “of 
course, you know they want him to marry Cat?” 


90 


FINE CLAY 


“Cat?” 

“Lady Kathleen Purflete,” he explained. 
“She and Rex don’t care a hang about each 
other. But then it’s so suitable!” He uttered 
the word in a tone of bitter mockery. 

A faint color came into Lamorna’s face. Cat 
was an unknown quantity. She had not realized 
that Lord Strode, having decided that Rex was 
now of an age to marry, had cast critical eyes 
upon the daughters of his neighbors and friends, 
and had singled out, not perhaps as the most 
suitable, but certainly as the least unsuitable, the 
girl who was known as Cat. 

“Anyhow, she’d lead Rex a life — that is one 
thing in her favor,” said Gifford. 

“Do you know, you’re dreadfully disagreeable 
and cynical?” she said. 

Gifford laughed. 

“Am I?” he said. 

Her smile, her frankness, won him to good 
humor. 

“But then I’m in love,” he said, with more 
than a touch of self -contempt. 

“I suppose she’s very beautiful?” said La- 
morna mockingly. 

“Yes — she’s beautiful,” he admitted. He 
seemed to see her standing there upon the cliff, 
with the sun on her face; he could almost hear 
her say: “I was praying that you might love 
me. You see, I have been loving you for quite 
a long time.” Such a grave, dignified utterance 
on those young lips. . . . 

“Why is she so particularly unsuitable?” 

“Well, she’s got no money, and there’s rather 


FINE CLAY 


91 


a dreadful father — not the kind of person I could 
bring here. And I suppose she’s been brought 
up rather anyhow. It’s a wonder, considering 
all things, that she is such a little angel. She’s 
very young — almost a child in some ways.” 

“Tell me what she is like.” 

“Very dark, with lots of silky black hair, 
parted and dressed very plainly, and big, 
rather sad brown eyes. She’s tall — not as tall 
as you — and graceful, tres bien mise, tres 
chic . . .” 

“She isn’t French?” 

“Oh no — both her parents were English. 
But she’s lived in France nearly all her life — she 
hasn’t been in England since she was a baby. 
Her father is a retired major, and she was born 
in India. Her mother’s dead.” 

Lamorna waited a moment. Then she said : 

“You’ll get over it. Wait a fortnight or three 
weeks and you’ll find you’ve almost forgotten 
to think of her. You hardly know her. She 
cannot have made a lasting impression upon 
you.” 

“She has,” he said; “I really do love her, La- 
morna. Of course, I’ve imagined myself in love 
before, but it was never like this. I’m miserable 
away from her. I’d do anything for her — any- 
thing in the world. She cares for me, too. If 
I had money of my own I’d marry her to-mor- 
row.” 

“Is she an only girl?” 

“Yes, and an only child.” 

“And what does her father say to it all?” 

“I haven’t asked him,” Gifford reddened. 


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“Oh!” said Lamorna. 

He fidgeted uncomfortably under her discon- 
certing gaze. 

“I’m in a bit of a hole, you see,” he said; “and 
what makes it all the worse is that she’s a Cath- 
olic. I didn’t tell my father that — it would only 
have added fuel to the flame!” 

“But you are not behaving well to any one. 
Not to the girl — not to her father — not to your 
own people,” she said quietly. 

Lamorna began to feel her responsibilities as 
a mother quite keenly. If Robin should ever in 
the future come to her with such a story! . . . 
But it was inconceivable. Robin should be 
brought up to be incapable of such duplicity. 
She had heard that Lord Strode had treated his 
younger son very harshly, and she supposed this 
was the outcome. 

“Oh — if you're going to begin!” he said almost 
rudely. 

“So they’ve said all that to you?” 

“My father’s eloquence is extremely graceful 
and accomplished. And Rex reiterates him 
very prettily. They don’t leave me with many 
illusions.” 

“But you shouldn’t lay yourself open to it,” 
she said. She was thinking to herself: “They 
despised poor Sydney, but he could never have 
behaved like that!” 

Gifford got up. His face was flushed; he 
looked very near to tears. 

“You seem to forget you’re a Lumleigh,” she 
said. She did not spare him. She felt she 
would have spoken just like that to Robin if he 


FINE CLAY 93 

had dared to come to her twenty years hence with 
such a story. 

“I wish I could forget it!” he said violently. 
“You’re just like the rest.” He hunched his 
shoulders and began to move slowly away. 

“Gifford — don’t go away . . she said. 
When she chose her voice could be very charm- 
ing. “Don’t go away like that.” 

He came slowly back. 

“You ought to go and tell her — and her father 
too — just what’s passed here between you and 
your father.” 

“But don’t you see it would mean losing her?” 

“But you must be straightforward,” she pro- 
tested. “And if you can’t marry her you’d bet- 
ter tell her so. How can you marry a Catholic? 
But perhaps you didn’t tell her this? Perhaps 
you didn’t tell her anything at all?” 

She looked at him reproachfully. She made 
him feel mean, dishonorable. He said sulkily: 

“You’re right — I didn’t. I didn’t tell her 
anything at all. She knows who I am and that’s 
about all. But we love each other.” He fell 
back upon that assertion. Did anything else 
matter? . . . He added brutally: “You loved 
Sydney, didn’t you? You ought to know what 
it means — this feeling that you’d go through 
heaven and hell for a person and never count the 
cost !” 

His face was aflame. There was no doubt 
about the ardor of his love. He was ready to 
sweep aside all obstacles. 

“You haven’t told me her name . . .” she said 
more gently. 


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“Yolande Pascoe. It’s a pretty name, isn’t 
it?” He put this question almost shyly. 

“Very pretty,” she agreed. 

“And you think I ought to go back and see 
her?” 

His face cleared a little. 

“Certainly I do,” said Lamorna, “but don’t be 
in too great a hurry. How long is it since you 
saw her?” 

“It is nearly ten days. You see, I couldn’t 
screw up courage to come home at once. So I 
stayed in London to make quite sure.” 

“I shouldn’t keep her waiting too long, poor 
child,” said Lamorna. A thin but sustained cry 
echoed from the upper windows of the Place. 
She sprang up quickly: “I hear Robin crying 
— I must go to him.” She trailed towards the 
house. She was so supple she looked almost 
boneless. Gifford watched her with a kind of 
unwilling admiration. 

In the hall she met Reginald. 

“My baby boy’s crying,” she said, “I don’t 
like him to cry.” 

Her maternal devotion was no pose but a de- 
vouring obsession. Reginald, however, mis- 
judged her. 

“Babies always yell, don’t they?” he said, with 
a piercing look of his keen, pale eyes so like his 
father’s. 

“Yes, but mothers are there to find out why,” 
she retorted. 

Robin had taken the place of all the little books 
of verse. He was the Living Poem. But her 
poetical attitude towards life in general struck 


FINE CLAY 


95 


Rex as singularly affected. Still . . . she was 
very charming, and he wondered what that cub 
Gifford had been talking to her about for more 
than an hour under the cedar trees. His latest 
silly love affair, in all probability. Fortunately 
his father had been very firm and had put a stop 
to it at once. One had to adopt strong measures 
with Gifford. 

Robin was a beautiful baby, very strong, very 
healthy. . . . He was fair, with curly golden 
hair and big blue eyes ; he was quite Saxon-look- 
ing. Lord Strode admired him immensely, and 
sang his praises in a way that was very gratifying 
to Lamorna. His unspoken thought was: “I 
wish Reginald would marry and give me just 
such a grandson !” He wondered that the small, 
dark, delicate-looking artist and the frail poet- 
woman who passed half her waking hours on 
the sofa, should have had such a fine sturdy nor- 
mal son. He was glad to think Sydney had 
had the sense to appoint him joint guardian of 
the boy. He could have him educated in the 
way he wished, ‘‘without any nonsense.” For- 
tunately Lamorna was agreeably complaisant in 
the matter; it was a pleasant reflection that she 
was so ready to bow to his superior wisdom. He 
still thought his own system of educating boys 
the only practical one. Plenty of rigorous dis- 
cipline at home, and a good school at an early 
age. Emancipation from petticoat government 
as soon as possible. What a mercy he had so 
speedily checked that disposition on the part of 
his wife to spoil and indulge Gifford! 


96 


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But this fresh outbreak of rebellion on Gif- 
ford’s part had both angered and perplexed him. 
The girl was probably an adventuress, and Gif- 
ford, like an idiot, had fallen into her net. 

Still it was disconcerting to discover that Gif- 
ford had left Merry wood Place that very night, 
and that France was his destination Lord Strode 
could not but guess. He contented himself 
with stopping his allowance ; he knew the way to 
bring him to his senses ! . . . 

Gifford left home without making any fare- 
wells. He did not even say good-by to La- 
morna, who was just then occupied with putting 
Robin to bed. He went to London and wrote 
the letter to the Marquise which followed her out 
to Terre Haute. Two days later he started for 
Boulogne. 

Boulogne and Yolande. . . . He saw the 
town perched seawards, the rows of houses brown 
and gray, the clustered red roofs, the crowded 
harbor with its forest of masts and rigging, the 
Cathedral solemnly grand on the heights above 
the town, the gray dome delicately drawn against 
the sky. He was going back to her — perhaps he 
should see her that very day ... he wondered 
how she would greet him in her pretty broken 
English. . . . But when the steamer slowly en- 
tered the harbor and he saw the Calvary looking 
down upon him from the heights, he turned and 
hid his eyes as if in shame. Conscience told him 
that he was going to hide things from Yolande 
which a man has no right to hide from the woman 
he intends to marry. 


CHAPTER IX 


T hey met first in the pine woods. Gifford had 
ordered his luggage to be sent on from Terre 
Haute and had elected to walk to the Chalet des 
Pins. Now that he was nearing his goal he felt 
a strange reluctance to see Yolande. He was 
coming to her outcast and empty-handed. 
Surely such a suitor would find no favor with 
Major Pascoe? He tramped the three kilo- 
meters in a mood of great despondency. He 
questioned his wisdom in coming at all. His 
journey home had been a complete failure. 
Full of these gloomy thoughts he entered upon 
the path which he was told by a passing peasant 
led through the woods to the Chalet. And he 
had not gone very far when he heard a light 
footstep, and looking up he saw Yolande quite 
alone coming towards him. 

She flushed a little at the sight of him. She 
knew he was to come to-day, but he had not said 
at what hour he would arrive. She had gone 
for a walk to make the time pass more quickly. 
The Marquise was, not very well and was pro- 
longing her siesta that afternoon. 

But it seemed to her when she saw Gifford that 
all must be well. He was even more dear to her 
than he had been that evening on the cliffs. 

When he came up and took her hand she trem- 
97 


98 


FINE CLAY 


bled a little. Soon there would be no more se- 
crets, and she could tell every one — her father 
and Tibby and the Marquise — that they loved 
each other. She was sorry she had been cross 
with Tibby. No one had any right to be cross 
in a world that held so much gladness. She 
lifted beautiful dark eyes to Gifford’s gray ones, 
and he, stooping a little, kissed her mouth. 

Above them the pine trees spread boughs of 
dark lustrous green against the sky. Here and 
there they could catch glimpses of the white 
dunes — so luminously white in the sunshine — 
and the wide, blue, smiling sea. But Yolande 
saw nothing of pines or dunes or sea; she was 
aware only of her lover who had come back to 
her, who loved her still. It may be questioned 
whether she ever knew a happier moment than 
that one. They did not speak much at first. 
They kissed each other in rapturous silence. 
They felt alone in the world, in a beautiful and 
splendid isolation. She clung to Gifford. He 
had made her suffer, but that did not matter 
any more. He loved her — he had come back. 
. . . How silly and useless had been those bitter 
tears she had shed during the past fortnight! 
Later she would tell Gifford about them, and 
they would laugh together over her poor unneces- 
sary little tragedy. 

At last he released her. “So you are really 
here, my darling,” he said; “it seems too good 
to be true. I could hardly believe it when the 
Marquise wrote and invited me, and said you 
were with her. But you haven’t said anything 
to her, have you?” 


FINE CLAY 99 

He sounded the first note of anxiety, of 
alarm. 

“No — I told her nothing, dear Gifford,” she 
said. She had learned to think of him as Gif- 
ford, and the name came quite easily to her lips. 
“But now there will be no need of any more se- 
crets, will there? We shall be able to tell papa 
and Tibby and the Marquise — every one.” . . . 

Gifford set his mouth sternly. 

“Not yet, dear,” he said, “we mustn’t say a 
word about it yet. If the Marquise says any- 
thing about it to me I shall have to tell her that 
it is a secret. I must explain all that to you by 
and by.” 

“I would rather you told me now,” she said; 
“I have hated having this secret. It made me 
rude and cross to poor Tibby — yes, I was simply 
horrid for several days, Gifford. It makes one 
commit such a lot of little sins — when one has a 
secret.” 

“My dear, you’re not in the nursery,” said 
Gifford; “you aren’t obliged to tell Miss Tibbit 
everything. She is only your governess.” 

“Oh, but she is my friend too — she has been 
with me so many years. She isn’t like a gov- 
erness — I have always told her everything!” 
said Yolande. 

“And your father? You didn’t say anything 
to him?” 

“Why, of course not. To tell you the truth, 
Gifford, I felt a little ashamed — after you had 
gone away. And Tibby, I think, guessed some- 
thing. You see, I am not a good person to have 
a secret — I am so unaccustomed. Now tell 


100 


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me your news. You have seen your father?” 

“Yes,” he answered grimly; “I’ve seen him!” 

“And he is not — quite pleased?” Her voice 
was piteous now. “Is that what you have come 
to say?” 

“You’re not far out,” he said bitterly. “We 
have quarreled as we have never quarreled be- 
fore. And that’s saying a good deal, my own 
precious little darling! He has stopped my al- 
lowance. I’ve got just fifty pounds in the 
world.” 

“Oh, but that is quite a large sum, surely,” 
said Yolande gravely; “Papa and Tibby and I 
can live for quite a long time on fifty pounds.” 

What a child she was still — with a child’s sim- 
ple outlook ! 

“Oh, my darling Yolande — one cannot marry 
on fifty pounds!” he said; “I shall have to find 
something to do. I am not at all clever, and no 
one will pay me much at first. We shall have to 
wait. . . 

He sat down on the sun-warmed slope, soft 
with pine-needles, and drew her to him. They 
sat thus, his arm around her, his eyes gazing into 
hers through the strange black fringe of lashes. 

“But, of course, we will wait,” she said, lean- 
ing against his shoulder with a little contented 
sigh. It was so good to have him hack again 
— to know for certain that he really and truly 
loved her, that for the moment she was quite in- 
capable of sharing his gloom. “I am only eight- 
een, you know, Gifford — that is still quite young, 
although many French girls marry even 
younger than that. But papa and Tibby will he 


FINE CL AT 


101 


glad, I think, for me not to leave them so soon.” 

“I ... I can’t wait,” said Gifford in an odd, 
strained voice; “I couldn’t risk it. Some one 
else would come along and want to marry you. 
Some one richer and nicer than I. . . . No — we 
must be married very soon. I shall think of a 
plan. But you mustn’t talk about it. That 
would be fatal. And you won’t give me up now 
— just because I’m poor? You will marry me?” 

“Yes — if Tibby does not think it too impru- 
dent,” she said. 

The words chilled him. 

“Tibby? What on earth has she got to do 
with it?” 

“She has always had charge of me,” said Yo- 
lande, “and she could tell me if it is wise or not 
for us to be married, when your father is so angry 
and refuses to give us any money.” 

“But that sounds most dreadfully mercenary, 
darling,” he protested. “When you are in love 
you don’t generally think about money.” 

“But indeed it is necessary to think about it a 
great deal when you wish to start even quite a 
little menage . Marie Dourlay was married last 
year, and her parents would not permit it until 
they could find between them at least ten thou- 
sand francs a year. And I do not like debts, 
nor to have people bothering for their money. 
That happens, too, if you have not enough. 
Papa,” she hesitated, fearing that such an ad- 
mission might even sound faintly disloyal, “Papa 
does not always have enough. It ... it is an 
uncomfortable thing. And sometimes, if people 
are rude, that is humiliating!” 


102 


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So she had seen and known from personal 
experience that sordid, semi-disreputable life 
wherein debts and duns played their dismal part. 

“It makes poor Tibby anxious and unhappy,’’ 
she continued; “and I should not like it either, if 
I were your wife and had to look after the me- 
nage and could not pay the tradespeople.” 

She looked at him with her grave serene eyes. 

“Perhaps you do not realize these things, Gif- 
ford,” she said gently, almost as if she were in- 
structing a child. 

This practical side of her nature astonished 
him. In these matters she seemed more expe- 
rienced than he was. Debts meant with him a 
periodical flare-up with his father when, after 
many bitter and angry words and a scene that 
was altogether' nerve-destroying, a cheque was 
generally grudgingly produced. 

“If I were a French girl,” continued Yolande, 
“I should not have to say these things to you. 
Papa would have decided if there was enough 
money. That seems to me such a much better 
plan.” 

“You adorable darling child!” said Gifford, 
kissing her. “If you were a French girl we 
should not be spending this perfectly lovely after- 
noon together in the pine-woods! Would that 
seem a much better plan too?” 

Yolande laughed a low happy laugh. The 
golden afternoon, the dappled pattern of bright 
sunlight and purple shadows, the glimpses of 
white dune and blue sky and sea, held a strange 
glamour for her. She had wandered through 
these woods alone so often of late, and they had 


FINE CLAY 


103 


never seemed so beautiful before. Always they 
had seemed a little sad and lonely ; even the sough- 
ing of the trees, the faint murmur of the sea, had 
been touched with melancholy. 

She turned to him suddenly. 

“I was very unhappy when you were away,” 
she said; “I was afraid you were not coming 
back. It made me restless and miserable, and I 
cried and could not sleep. . . . Then when the 
Marquise said you were coming I was very happy 
— I felt how foolish and wrong I had been to 
doubt you.” . . . 

“Darling,” he said, inexpressibly touched by 
this naive confession, “I hope you will always 
believe in me — always trust me. That will 
make things so much easier for us both.” 

“And your father,” she went on timidly; “tell 
me about him. Was he very angry? And did 
that make you sad too? Papa has never been 
angry with me — I do not think I could bear it — 
and until the other day Tibby had never scolded 
me since I was quite a little girl.” 

“What did she scold you about?” he asked 
rather uncomfortably. 

“It was a little bit on account of you,” she 
said; “and she thought me idle, and I was really 
only triste. It was not a very bad scolding, you 
see. But I was angry and rather rude. Were 
you rude to your father, Gifford?” 

“I daresay I was,” said Gifford. “We both 
spoke very plainly. And my brother — I have 
one brother, you know, Yolande — was rather a 
beast too. I was glad to come away. I never 
want to go back to Merry wood.” 


104 


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“Merry wood?” 

“That is the name of my home — Merrywood 
Place.” 

“Is it a large house?” 

“Very large. Jacobean, you know, — and all 
that kind of thing. It’s in Sussex.” 

She contrasted it mentally, and with a feeling 
akin to consternation, with the little pension — 
so much smaller than anything she had known 
before — which was all the Major could now af- 
ford. 

“Then he is very rich — your father?” she asked. 

“Very,” said Gifford; “my grandfather made 
the money — the first Lord Strode.” 

“And you think he could not give us ten thou- 
sand francs a year — which is just enough for a 
simple little menage like Marie’s ?” 

“He could, but he won’t,” said Gifford; “he 
won’t give me a penny. I tell you I’ve only got 
fifty pounds in the world.” 

Yolande looked very thoughtful. 

“Would you not let me ask Tibby’s advice?” 
she ventured, timidly. 

“My dear child — we don’t want advice. Of 
course you mustn’t ask Tibby. If you do we 
shall certainly never be married at all.” 

He felt a little vexed with this unknown 
Tibby, whose influence was evidently so supreme. 
A Tibby, too, who dared to scold his beloved, and 
take her to task for idleness ! . . . 

When at last they rose and walked on to the 
Chalet they found the Marquise sitting alone, 
having tea under the trees. She looked up in 


FINE CLAY 


105 


some surprise. Like many rather unconventional 
people she liked to be treated conventionally, es- 
pecially by young men. Gifford had not an- 
nounced the hour of his arrival, and here he was 
sauntering towards her accompanied by Yolande. 
Again a fugitive scruple seized her. Was she 
right in letting the young man come here at all? 
What were his intentions with regard to Yo- 
lande? She stood for the moment in loco pa- 
rentis to the girl, and was in some measure re- 
sponsible for her. She wondered how long they 
had been in the woods together. 

Her greeting was a little stiff. But Gifford 
was almost always at his ease; he had far too 
much experience of delicate situations not to be 
perfectly aware how best to carry them off. 

“I walked from Terre Haute,” he said, “and 
I hope my luggage will arrive in due time. It 
was delightfully shady and cool coming through 
these charming woods. And on my way I had 
the good fortune to meet Miss Pascoe.” 

This perfectly plausible explanation appeased 
the Marquise. 

“I hope you had an agreeable journey,” she 
said. “Yolande and I both find the woods most 
shady to sit in. This is far nicer than the Falaise, 
is it not, Mr. Lumleigh?” 

“Oh, you mustn’t expect me to abuse the 
Falaise,” he said lightly; “it was altogether de- 
lightful there. I found that I quite detested 
England when I went back to it!” 

“I always detest England,” said the Marquise, 
“although it is my own country. I have not been 
there for ten years. I said I would never go 


106 


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again ; but now I must confess I am actually con- 
templating it. I had an invitation this very day 
from a friend who wishes to see me. She is ill, 
and says she cannot live long — and I feel it would 
be an act of charity to go to her.” She gave Yo- 
lande a cup of tea, and began to pour out one for 
Gifford. “You are thirsty, I should think, after 
your walk?” 

She looked from one to the other. Yolande 
was curiously radiant-looking; she had more 
color than usual and her beautiful dark eyes 
shone like stars. Was it Gifford Lumleigh who 
had called up that look into her face? The Mar- 
quise was extremely experienced in all matters 
of love. She felt perfectly convinced that some 
very definite understanding existed between 
these two handsome young people. She hoped, 
later on, that they would take her into their confi- 
dence. 

“But you will not go to England soon, I hope, 
Marquise,” said Gifford a little anxiously. He 
did not wish to have these days at the Chalet 
des Pins cut short. 

“Perhaps next week,” she said carelessly. “I 
have not thought a great deal about it. Do help 
yourself to cake and give Yolande some.” She 
leaned back lazily in her chair. 

“Perhaps if I do go I shall take Yolande with 
me,” she continued, after a moment’s pause. 
“She has not seen England since she was a baby. 
Would you like that, Yolande?” 

“I should love it, above all things!” Her face 
flushed a little; she spoke eagerly. More than 
ever, since she had known Gifford, had England 


FINE CLAY 


107 


become for her the land of Romance — the land 
which from her earliest years she had dreamed of 
in connection with some strange and beautiful 
fate that would one day be hers. Perhaps it 
was there in some far-off and radiant future that 
she would become Gifford’s wife. . . . 

“It would compensate for leaving the pine- 
woods?” said the Marquise. She had no inten- 
tion of being cruel; she only wished to tease this 
very reticent young couple. 

“I love the pine-woods too,” said the girl; “but 
I have always wanted to go to England.” 

“I daresay it can easily be managed,” said the 
Marquise carelessly. Although Gifford said 
nothing, she felt that he did not care for the proj- 
ect; it did not appeal to him. And she longed 
to know why. 

There was something she did not quite under- 
stand, something that still made her feel for Yo- 
lande’s sake a little anxious. It was not that she 
did not like Gifford. He was the kind of young 
man whom women almost invariably like. But 
in spite of his frank and charming manner she 
could not help feeling that there was something 
secretive about him, something which he did not 
wish her to know. And she was not going to let 
him make Yolande unhappy. Perhaps he 
thought he could flirt with impunity with the 
daughter of Major Pascoe, whom he must know 
well, at least by repute. But she was going to 
show him that he could not flirt thus with the 
Marquise de Solignac’s guest. If she had made 
a false move in permitting him to come here she 
could very soon cut the knot by bearing Yolande 


108 


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off to England. She had heard that the father 
of this young man was unusually wealthy; there- 
fore Yolande’s absence of dot could scarcely be 
an insuperable disadvantage. But she did not 
know how little of the money would ever come 
into Gifford’s hands. Neither his father nor 
Rex cared for him sufficiently to show him any 
particular generosity, and his mother’s money 
had all been brought into settlement, and would 
belong principally to Rex in the future. His 
outlook was far less promising than she supposed. 


CHAPTER X 


B efore the Marquise had any opportunity of 
questioning Gifford upon the subject of Yo- 
lande she became ill with that affection which is 
known across the Channel as an angine. 

Although it was not a very severe attack, it 
sufficed to keep her in bed for three days, and 
during that time she could only speak with dif- 
ficulty, and preferred to remain quite alone in 
her apartment, ministered to by a faithful maid. 

Gifford and Yolande were thus left com- 
pletely to their own devices, and for once it must 
be said that Fate favored the lovers. The 
weather was brilliant; the pine-woods lost none 
of their glamour through pleasant familiarity; 
the lonely walks along the shore became to both 
of them adventures of thrilling happiness. 

The only person who was thoroughly to be 
pitied was poor Tibby. She found Yolande’s 
letters very brief and unsatisfactory. The girl, 
absorbed with her lover, could think of no trivial 
details of her daily life with which to interest 
Tibby. She wrote nearly always in the same 
strain. “The Marquise has a sore-throat. She 
is in bed to-day. I have been for a walk in the 
woods. The weather is beautiful, and it is lovely 
here.” She did no justice to the lessons in com- 
position which Tibby had imposed upon her for 


110 


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eight years. The letters, too, were ill-written 
and bore evidence of hurry. What could she be 
doing there all day with the Marquise ill in bed? 
Surely she could find time to write a decent let- 
ter! Tibby’s irritation was increased by the 
knowledge that the Major had so soon found 
Paris too hot for his liking that he had remained 
there but a single day. He had found, he said, 
a most delightful spot, where there were woods 
and a lake, a charming hotel, a casino, and many 
kindred spirits. She could not go and rescue 
him from these insidious dangers, since it is in- 
conceivable that when a man is over fifty his 
daughter’s governess should rescue him from any 
place, however undesirable. Nor could she go 
out to Terre Haute and see for herself what Yo- 
lande was doing. For the moment these two 
had escaped completely from her controlling 
hand. She was left alone during those stifling 
days in the Boulogne pension. She was very 
unhappy about Major Pascoe, and she was still 
more unhappy about Yolande. It was a mis- 
fortune that the girl should have attracted the 
capricious fancy of a woman like the Marquise, 
who was certainly very charming, but a thorough 
mondaine. Moreover, had she not quite recently 
allowed Yolande to walk home in the dusk from 
Villa Falaise to Boulogne with a young man of 
whom she — Tibby — knew nothing? 

Had she been gifted with clairvoyance her anx- 
iety would have increased into positive alarm. 
Even the Marquise herself was scarcely aware 
how unconventional was the behavior of her two 
young guests. She did not know, for instance, 


FINE CLAY 


111 


of those hasty expeditions out to the dunes after 
dinner when the moon was just beginning to 
shine through the summer dusk, silvering those 
weirdly-shaped hillocks of blown sand until they 
looked like a miniature range of snow-crowned 
Alps. Against that silver-whiteness the pine- 
woods lay like purple-black shadows, strange, 
mysterious, and silent. The long, dark grass 
shivered and fretted under the rough caress of the 
sea wind. And the sea was more wonderful than 
ever in the moonlight, with every little crest rim- 
ming the low breaking waves as with a shining 
crown of silver. Its hushed music matched the 
sobbing of the pine-trees; all the night sounds 
seemed to possess a proud unconquerable melan- 
choly that contrasted vividly with their own joy. 
And on the dunes or running upon the sands Yo- 
lande was like a little wild sprite. She would 
escape from Gifford, and he would chase her; she 
would turn abruptly and elude him, and then run 
towards him till he clasped her in his arms. 
She was like some slender and fragile flower in 
the moonlight. And neither of them spoke of 
the future. This was the present wherein they 
could be happy together. Gifford put off the 
day of reckoning. He told himself that she 
loved him too much now ever to give him up. 
With every kiss she seemed more his. 

She liked to stand and watch the fishing-boats 
pass by at night, their lights shining; with their 
heavy sails they seemed to her like dark and mys- 
terious birds. Sometimes a yacht passed with 
shining silver sails, bright in the moonlight, a 
fairy argosy laden, perhaps, with a magic freight. 


112 


FINE CLAY 


She told Gifford of her childish dreams of an- 
other barque crossing that sea in a sheet of burn- 
ing flame, bearing a statue of Our Lady to the 
harbor of Boulogne. And though he laughed a 
little, he was touched, too, by the beauty of the 
childish thought. He never saw again quite that 
wilful, wayward, yet poetic side of her. It 
seemed called into being by those marvelous 
June nights that were never quite dark. She 
was like a spirit of the dunes, almost intangible, 
fragile as sea-foam. . . . When they returned 
to the Chalet, going quickly as if they had played 
truant too long, he noticed that she was always 
spent and tired. More willing, too, to lean on his 
arm, yet more timid and shrinking when he 
would have kissed her. 

“We must be married very soon, my Yolande,” 
he said to her one night as they walked back to 
the Chalet. 

A sudden storm had swept up from the sea, 
stirring the waves to swift revolt; the pines were 
tossing dark stencilled boughs against a sky of 
hurrying purple cloud. 

“Must we?” she said. The present was so per- 
fect that she had ceased to think of the future; 
she had almost forgotten to fear the time when 
Gifford would have to go away and leave her. 

“But of course we must,” said Gifford; “and 
if you do go to England with the Marquise we 
could arrange something.” 

“Do you mean we could be married there?” 
Was it in England she was to be Gifford’s bride, 
dressed as Marie Dourlay had been in white satin 
with a wreath of orange-blossoms? 


FINE CLAY 113 

“Yes — I think we could be married there,” 
said Gifford. 

“You think if I were to be presented to your 
father he might give his consent?” she said ear- 
nestly. “You would take me to this place, 
Merry wood?” 

Gifford looked puzzled; he passed his hand 
over her hair, that seemed so thick and soft to his 
touch. 

“Darling Yolande — I haven’t thought of all 
the details yet. It will be a little difficult, and 
the less we talk about it to others now the easier 
it may prove to be. You must trust me, and I 
will arrange as best I can.” He sighed. 

“You’re not happy, dear Gifford?” she said 
wistfully. 

Out there on the moon-washed sands he had 
seemed gay and light-hearted as a boy. Per- 
haps the sudden angry storm had depressed him. 
She put out her hand and touched his timidly. 

“What would you do if I went away and left 
you, Yolande?” he said anxiously. “Would it 
make you sad? Would you mind very much?” 

He put his hands round her face and turned it 
towards his own. He looked into her eyes with 
a strained, eager look. “Tell me,” he said. 

But she broke from him, and, turning, hid her 
face. He heard a low sound of sobbing; it tore 
his heart. Her whole slight body quivered. 
She sobbed almost as if she were struggling for 
breath. He was on his knees beside her in an in- 
stant. “Yolande . . . Yolande.” . . . 

If she would only speak! That dry, agonized 
sobbing was unbearable. . . . 


114 


FINE CLAY 


“Yolande,” he said again. 

“Gifford — of course I should care. I think it 
would kill me. I love you ” 

He held her closely, kissing the tears from her 
eyes. 

“And I love you,” he said. “I can’t give you 
up now, darling. Bad or good, we must make 
the best of it. But you mustn’t cry, Yo- 
lande. . . . I’m not worth one of your beautiful 
tears !” 

It was their last evening of freedom, for on the 
morrow the Marquise reappeared, having recov- 
ered from her angine , and looking more lovely 
than ever. 

“Well, you two children,” she said, as she came 
in to breakfast, “have you been amusing your- 
selves and each other?” 

“Yes, thank you, Marquise,” said Gifford; “it 
would be quite impossible to be bored in this 
lovely chalet. But, of course, we have missed 
you very much.” 

“Well, I am not at all enamored of my lovely 
chalet,” said the Marquise, who always detested 
a place the moment she was ill in it. And she had 
felt very sorry for herself during the last few 
days. Quite evidently Terre Haute did not 
agree with her. The plan of going to England 
to visit her sick friend had taken definite shape 
during those days of imprisonment. 

She turned to Yolande. 

“How pale you are looking, child! I’ve writ- 
ten to your father about your coming to England 
with me. He’s quite delighted, of course. He 


FINE CLA Y 


115 


says he shall take advantage of your absence to 
remain away from Boulogne himself.” 

“Oh, when shall you go?” said Yolande 
eagerly. 

The Marquise smiled. 

“Probably Monday,” she said; “that will give 
us three days to prepare. And you — Mr. Lum- 
leigh, I suppose you intend to remain in Bou- 
logne to study French?” 

“Certainly not,” he said; “I shall escort you 
both to England.” 

“Has Boulogne ceased to attract you?” she in- 
quired. 

Under her cool scrutiny Gifford reddened. 

“Not altogether, but it would be a desert with- 
out you, Marquise, and without Miss Pascoe.” 

He spoke in a tone of easy conventional polite- 
ness. 

“My poor friend is in London,” she said ; “and 
she has taken a flat for me not too far away, so 
that I can easily go and see her. I particularly 
requested that there should be a room for you, 
Yolande, and since your father is so kind as to 
let you come I think we may look upon it all as 
quite decided.” 

“That will be delightful,” said Gifford; “I 
shall stay for a bit in London too. We must go 
to the opera and to the play, and to Hurlingham 
and to all the other agreeable places which Miss 
Pascoe has never seen,” 

He was so open and frank about it all that 
again he quieted her misgivings. Yolande cer- 
tainly looked very happy — not at all like a girl 


116 


FINE CLAY 


who has begun to wonder if she is loved or not. 
There were generally such moments for the 
woman in every love-affair, and that they could 
be bad moments the Marquise was well aware. 
Yolande was, however, bright and gay as a child. 
Was she so certain, then, of Gifford’s love? 
Had he already spoken? And if so, why had 
she herself not been told? These were puzzling 
questions. But Yolande was not her own daugh- 
ter, and she felt a little different about interfer- 
ing. 


CHAPTER XI 


T he waters of the Channel, though by no 
means in a bad humor, were yet sufficiently 
animated on the day they crossed to cause the 
Marquise acute discomfiture. Before she set 
foot on English soil her dislike of that accursed 
island, as she called it, had deepened into violent 
hatred. At one moment she found herself doubt- 
ing whether she would ever find courage to re- 
turn to France. La Manche looked a trivial in- 
significant blue streak upon the map, and she 
felt that never again would she be able to put any 
trust in maps. They were quite enormously de- 
lusive and misleading. An hour and a half? 
She felt that she had spent aeons of anguish in 
that unhappy prison of a deck cabin while her 
maid ministered to her sufferings. Other cap- 
tives could be heard uttering screams of dismay 
and agony. Altogether it was a very painful 
and disagreeable experience, and she wondered 
how Yolande was enduring it. She need not 
have made herself unhappy, however, on Yo- 
lande’s account, for Miss Pascoe was seated hap- 
pily on deck talking to Gifford Lumleigh. 
Further, she was making the discovery that she 
adored being on the sea. Even her brief fare- 
well of Tibby on the quay at Boulogne had not 

diminished her gaiety. She had kissed her and 
m 


118 


FINE CLAY 


tried to comfort her, for Tibby was actually 
in tears, but she had never mentioned Gifford’s 
presence on the boat. That would only have re- 
newed Miss Tibbit’s reluctance to allow her to 
go to England without any other chaperonage 
than that so inadequately offered by her beauti- 
ful hostess. Besides, she knew nothing of Gif- 
ford’s return to France; of the long golden days 
spent with him at the Chalet des Pins, and of the 
long moonlit evenings passed upon the white 
dunes with their fringe of blue pine-woods, their 
thin scrub of wild myrtle and tamarisk. Yo- 
lande had lost something of her first scruple in 
concealing her love-affair from Tibby. She felt 
that she owed her loyalty in a new quarter. Gif- 
ford had entreated her to trust him and to keep 
silence; she took pride in obeying him; it was the 
practical and definite sign of her complete alle- 
giance to him, her devoted love for him. It had, 
however, been a little humiliating that to achieve 
Tibby ’s ignorance of his presence, Gifford had 
had to hide until the boat had started. It gave 
Yolande the same sense of guilt and shame as 
when the waiter had presented her so slyly with 
Gifford’s first letter. These things were soiling. 
But she consoled herself that they were all part 
of the sacrifice he demanded of her. 

“Our dear Marquise is very unhappy,” said 
Gifford, settling himself beside her and drawing 
a thick rug over her knees. “One would think 
she had never traveled before. I refuse to be- 
lieve in those voyages to America and Ceylon.” 

“I suppose the boats are so much smaller and 
shake more,” said Yolande. She was not think- 


FINE CLAY 


119 


ing really about the Marquise. Her eyes were 
fixed upon the fading French shores, lying bathed 
in sunlight. High above the town she could see 
that green dome of the Cathedral, dominating 
the scene. She thought that it stood there with 
an air of protection as if God were indeed watch- 
ing over the town, preserving it from harm. Al- 
most she had a vague regret at leaving Boulogne. 
This voyage did not mean only a little visit to 
England; it was the journey to which she knew 
now that she had looked forward all her life. 
She knew, too, that that future was to be inti- 
mately bound up with the man at her side. 
There were, of course, those difficulties of which 
he had spoken, but perhaps he would find em- 
ployment and earn enough to have a tiny menage . 
She was sure that she could in time be- 
come a good manager, that she would learn to be 
economical. She was glad now that Tibby had 
been so firm about teaching her to cook and sew. 
She had hated these tasks, and had often longed 
to rebel, but now she was grateful to Tibby. She 
was a little afraid that lately she had not been al- 
ways kind to Tibby. She had neglected her. 
But when she was married she would soon make 
amends. She would ask her to come and stay 
with them. It would be delightful to play host- 
ess to a Tibby who could no longer even kindly 
scold her! 

“What are you thinking of, my dearest dear?” 
said Gifford suddenly breaking in upon her 
thoughts. 

She colored faintly. “I was thinking perhaps 
when we are married, Gifford, we could have 


120 


FINE CLAY 


Tibby to come and stay with us. I should like 
her to see what a good manager I am. You 
know I believe she still looks upon me as a very 
useless little girl! And, then, you don’t know 
Tibby, and I want you to love her too.” 

Gifford’s face hardened. 

“Oh, but I don’t think I shall want her at all,” 
he said; “I should hate to have any — outsiders. 
I want to have you all to myself.” 

“But Tibby isn’t an outsider,” she protested; 
“and we cannot always be quite alone for, of 
course, papa would want to come and see me. It 
is strange to think, Gifford, that though we are 
going to be married you have never seen either 
papa or Tibby — the two people who really mat- 
ter to me.” 

“I don’t think it’s so very strange,” said Gif- 
ford; “you see, the Marquise is responsible for 
introducing us; and, then, your father has been 
away from Boulogne. I am afraid I can’t think 
much of Miss Tibbit’s rights in the matter. She 
is only your governess, and I should have thought 
you would have been only too pleased to shake 
off any one so strict and severe and tiresome !” 

“Oh, but she has always been very kind to me. 
People used to say she spoilt me. And if she 
scolded me I am sure that I deserved it. It is 
only you who think I am perfect, Gifford. 
Tibby and papa must know of many imperfec- 
tions.” 

“Well, it isn’t any more strange than your not 
knowing my people, I suppose,” said Gifford; 
“such things happen every day — marriages which 
one’s relations know nothing about. Family ties 


FINE CLAY 


121 


always seem to me a little absurd directly one is 
grown up. One’s people only seem created to 
make a fuss over trifles that don’t concern them.” 
His face assumed the old sullen lines. “I am 
sure we shall find a way to be married quite pri- 
vately in London. Even the Marquise needn’t 
know. Oh, I feel as if the whole world were con- 
spiring to prevent our happiness — I hardly like 
to breathe it aloud lest some hidden enemy 
should place obstacles in the way of it!” He 
spoke vehemently. 

“But do you think the priest would marry us 
without my father’s consent?” she said timidly. 

“What priest?” said Gifford frowning. 

“The priest we shall ask to marry us,” she an- 
swered. 

Gifford’s eyes were fastened upon the white 
cliffs of England that were now clearly visible in 
all their details against the pale, cloudless blue of 
the June sky. 

“I don’t think we shall be able to be married by 
a Catholic priest, Yolande,” said Gifford; “he’d 
want to ask too many questions — especially as 
I’m not a Catholic. It would add very greatly 
to our difficulties. No — I hardly think that 
would be possible.” 

Now Yolande was not in those days an ex- 
tremely pious girl. In after years her religion 
became a far more absorbing thing to her. So 
far she had taken it simply and very much for 
granted. In Boulogne, where her few friends 
were generally both French and Catholic, she 
had never met with the slightest antagonism, 
and she had heard nothing of religious discus- 


122 


FINE CLAY 


sion. She and Tibby had gone to Mass most 
days together. With the Marquise de Solignac 
she went only on Sundays. The Marquise was 
one of those people who, without being at all 
devout, are nevertheless assiduous in performing 
all that is obligatory, and she had been careful to 
ascertain that her daughter’s husband was a prac- 
tising Catholic. Still, if Yolande was not very 
devout she was, at any rate, well-instructed, and 
she knew perfectly well that as a Catholic she 
must be married by a priest in a Catholic church. 
She would yield to Gifford’s superior wisdom in 
everything else, and already she felt that she had 
yielded in things her conscience did not alto- 
gether approve. But on this particular point 
she knew that he could not make her give way. 
She could not return to Boulogne with such a 
story as that to tell to Tibby. It was quite im- 
possible. So she only said very quietly : 

“Then we shall not be able to be married, Gif- 
ford. I know it would be a sin for me to be mar- 
ried in any other way. About the other things 
you are making me do — this keeping papa and 
Tibby in the dark — I am not so certain, because 
I have not had the opportunity of consulting my 
confessor. But I do know this would be wrong, 
and I cannot do it. It would be a sin for me.” 

“A sin — what nonsense!” said Gifford scorn- 
fully. “Who says it is a sin?” 

“It is a sin because it would mean that I must 
disobey the laws of the Church,” she said. 

“I didn’t think you were so priest-ridden,” he 
said; “in England you’ll find people very free 
from that kind of nonsense!” 


FINE CLAY 


123 


But he was uncomfortably aware that at last 
he had touched something which was rocky and 
would not yield to his easy sophistries. He had 
adored her when she told him about her dream of 
the Madonna; he had liked to see her kneeling at 
the foot of the Calvary; it had touched him inex- 
pressibly to know that she had been praying for 
his love. But now he found himself up against 
obstacles that were all part of her religion, and 
which he felt might render it as hateful in his eyes 
as it had been in the eyes of the first Lord Strode, 
who had so unwillingly given a son to the Society 
of Jesus. Again the remembrance of the impos- 
sibility of introducing a Catholic wife to his par- 
ents struck him with renewed force. He had not 
suspected Yolande of so much bigotry, of so 
much tenacity. He had hoped that as she was 
so young and inexperienced she might still be in 
ignorance of the precise teaching of the Catholic 
Church on the subject of marriage. He was an- 
noyed to find that she had been perfectly in- 
structed upon this point. It did not make his 
path any easier, rather it increased its difficulty 
and also the urgent necessity for keeping silence 
until after the ceremony. 

He traveled with them to Charing Cross, and 
the Marquise being with them he had no oppor- 
tunity of continuing the discussion begun on the 
steamer. At the station he bade them both fare- 
well. The Marquise gave him her address and 
invited him to dine on the following evening. 
He gladly assented. In the meantime he was 
resolved to lose no time in making definite plans 
for their marriage as soon as possible. 


CHAPTER XII 


I t seemed to Gifford that Fortune was exceed- 
ingly propitious to him during the weeks that 
followed. He saw a great deal of Yolande while 
the Marquise generally spent most of the 
day with her dying friend, Mrs. Vernon, to whom 
she was singularly attached. Mrs. Vernon was 
about her own age, but had early been stricken 
with an incurable malady, and her days were now 
numbered. She was a widow and had no chil- 
dren, and until lately she had spent a great deal 
of her time in France, and before her illness had 
even accompanied the Marquise upon some of 
her longer journeys. They were extremely in- 
timate, and the Marquise when she chose could be 
a very faithful friend. If Elsie Vernon wanted 
her, nothing would keep her from her side. It 
was perhaps the most profound attachment of 
her life, and she felt the prospect of parting from 
her with a real grief. Mrs. Vernon was a cour- 
ageous woman and was facing her inevitable 
fate with a calm courage that seemed to forbid 
any excessive display of emotion. The Mar- 
quise spent long hours in her sick-room, but in 
the evenings she was not unmindful of the duty 
she owed to her little guest, and she was always 
ready to dine out and go to any play or opera or 
other entertainment which Gifford might sug- 


FINE CLAY 125 

gest. Mrs. Vernon had even urged her to do 
this. 

Thus three weeks passed very happily for the 
young couple, and the Marquise in no way in- 
truded her own grief and anxiety upon them. 
Gifford’s attachment to Yolande showed no sign 
of diminution, and although the Marquise had 
now resolved not to force their confidence, she 
began to take it for granted that they were en- 
gaged to each other, and that for reasons best 
known to themselves they wished to keep the fact 
a secret for a little longer. 

Gifford had had for some time a bachelor 
apartment in Jermyn Street, but he knew that 
he would soon have to give it up. Failing his 
allowance he had not a sou in the world except 
his fifty pounds, upon which, however, he had al- 
ready made considerable inroads. It would last 
with care over the honeymoon, and then he 
would either seek employment or inform his 
mother privately, hoping that she would be able 
to give him some assistance. He was always 
hopeful and optimistic, and he felt that once 
safely married to Yolande all would turn out 
well. 

One day, however, matters came to a crisis. 
The weather was now very hot, and Mrs. Vernon 
was suffering extremely from the heat. At all 
costs her physician decided that she must leave 
town, and it was rather suddenly arranged that 
she should go to Bournemouth and that the Mar- 
quise should accompany her. The end could not 
be far off, and it was thought that this plan might 
add to the comfort of her last days, or at least di- 


126 


FINE CLAY 


minish the discomfort she was now experiencing. 
The Marquise had a moment of difficulty on Yo- 
lande’s account. Then she suddenly thought 
that, after all, the girl had been three weeks in 
town; the season was waning, and it would be 
quite easy to send her back to Boulogne. She 
knew that Yolande would be much disappointed 
at this precipitate termination to her visit ; still it 
could not be helped. She was obliged to think 
first of her dying friend, whom she could not pos- 
sibly leave. And it was equally impossible to 
take Yolande with her to Bournemouth. 

She broke the news quite kindly to her on the 
day the plan was first arranged. 

“Yolande,” she said (she was alone with her at 
the time, as for once Gifford was not dining with 
them) , “I’m afraid I shall have to send you home 
on Saturday. I have to go with Mrs. Vernon 
the day after to-morrow to Bournemouth. You 
won’t mind being here one night by yourself? I 
shall leave Jeanne with you so that you will not 
feel alone.” 

Yolande looked up quickly. “Oh, must I 
really go home?” she said in a tone of consterna- 
tion. The unwelcome news had taken her com- 
pletely by surprise. And what would Gifford 
say? The thought of parting with him was like 
a cold hand laid suddenly upon her heart, numb- 
ing it. Involuntarily the tears gathered in her 
eyes; she was afraid that the Marquise would 
perceive them, so she rose and looked out of the 
window, pretending to be interested in the cease- 
less traffic of the street below. 

“Do you really mind so much?” said the Mar- 


FINE CLAY 


127 


quise. “You would have to go soon, in any case. 
I don’t think,” and now she looked at her with a 
straight, keen glance, “that you should delay an- 
nouncing your engagement. Your father ought 
to know. I do not know if you have already told 
him, but I have certainly felt a little hurt that 
you have not told me.” 

Yolande was silent. What could she say in 
loyalty to Gifford? 

“For I conclude you are engaged to Gifford 
Lumleigh,” continued the Marquise; “or else I 
do not think I should have accorded you so much 
liberty. But in England people who are en- 
gaged are allowed to go about together in a man- 
ner which would, of course, be unheard of in 
France. I am not sure that it is wiser but it is 
the custom.” 

“He wished to keep our engagement a secret,” 
said Yolande, “that is why I did not tell you. 
His father does not approve, and until he gives 
his consent there will not be any money. So he 
thought it would be more prudent to keep silence 
for the present.” 

“So you haven’t told your father?” inquired the 
Marquise in rather an astonished tone. 

“No,” said Yolande, feeling very uncomfort- 
able. 

“Nor Tibby?” 

“No.” She felt that the Marquise shared her 
own misgivings as to the rectitude of so much 
secrecy, and her conscience again became a tor- 
menting inquisitor. 

“Well, I should certainly tell them both the 
moment you get home, my dear child. After all, 


128 


FINE CLAY 


Major Pascoe is your father, and he has a right 
to know. You are very young, you see, and you 
have so little experience of the world. And if 
Lord Strode refuses to give his son an allowance 
it would be most foolish and imprudent to con- 
tinue an engagement of the kind.” 

She got up and kissed Yolande as if she wished 
to soften the severity of her speech. 

“I am sorry that I shall not see Gifford again 
myself, for I should certainly have spoken to him 
on the subject. He has no right to bind you — 
young as you are — to a secret engagement!” 

She felt, then, what an impossible parent 
Major Pascoe must be, and what a hopeless, use- 
less guardian for a young girl. He did not seem 
to bother his head about her at all. He left her 
to Tibby, and the girl was too old to have a gov- 
erness. She was lamentably unprotected. 

“I’m sure you’ll do what is right in the matter, 
my dear,” she said, her great violet eyes softening 
with tenderness, for Yolande was becoming very 
dear to her. “Take the advice of an old woman 
who has had a daughter of her own to bring up.” 
And she kissed her again. Yolande returned the 
embrace rather shyly. She was still hiding so 
much from her. She had not ventured to tell her 
that Gifford was making plans for their mar- 
riage to take place before she even left England. 
Perhaps it would now be the day after to-mor- 
row. Instead of returning to France on Satur- 
day they might be quietly married. She felt a 
little afraid now that it had come to the point, es- 
pecially after what the Marquise had just said. 
It could not be right — that she should go off and 


FINE CLAY 


129 


get married without telling a soul, although Gif- 
ford assured her that it was done every day. 
The Marquise seemed to think it wrong to keep 
the engagement a secret, and she had openly 
blamed Gifford for insisting upon it. And if it 
were wrong to say nothing of the engagement to 
her father and Tibby, how much more wrong it 
would be to get married without telling 
them! . . . 

“It is from our point of view the best thing 
that could have happened,” said Gifford. 

He had come in on the afternoon before the 
Marquise’s departure for Bournemouth, and Yo- 
lande had announced the change of plans to him 
with a little secret fear. What would he say? 
What would he do? She stood there facing him 
like a pale little flower — a flower fashioned of 
white foam and whiter flame. . . . 

He took her in his arms when he said that: “It 
is the best thing that could have happened . . .” 
and kissed her with a new gentleness. “My Yo- 
lande,” he said, “my darling little bride to be! 
Nothing can stop us from getting married on 
Saturday. I have got a special licence, and if 
you must be married in your own Church I must 
go and see about it this afternoon.” 

Yolande drew her fine black brows together in 
a puzzled frown. 

“Oh, Gifford, are you quite sure that we ought 
to do this? The Marquise seemed to think it 
wrong already that we should have kept our en- 
gagement secret — that I should have not told 
papa and Tibby.” 


130 


FINE CLAY 


“Then why on earth did you tell her that we 
were engaged at all, Yolande?” he demanded, 
with a touch of temper. 

“I could not help it — she asked me. And she 
said it was wrong of you to bind me to a secret 
engagement.” 

“Oh, she blamed me, did she?” said Gifford. 
“I never thought she would be so interfering. 
Well, anyhow, she’s going away, and I’m glad of 
it. It’s really, when you come to look close at it, 
quite providential.” 

She was silent. 

“What is the matter with you, Yolande? 
You don’t look at all pleased! You are not 
hesitating, are you? You do want to marry 
me?” 

He took her hands, grasping them tightly, and 
looked into her eyes. 

“I ... I don’t want to do anything wrong, 
Gifford. Couldn’t we go back to Boulogne and 
tell papa . . . and ask his permission, and be 
married there?” 

She tried to release her hands, for she felt that 
his very touch weakened her; but he held them 
firmly. 

“What is your father to you?” he said, almost 
with anger. “At least I am as good a guardian 
for any woman as he is! He is nothing but a 
gambler — a roue — with no sense of parental re- 
sponsibility. Do you suppose I haven’t heard 
all about him in Boulogne? Half the time he is 
too fuddled with absinthe to know what he is do- 
ing! Is he the kind of person to advise you? 
He is impossible — and if you let him come be- 


FINE CLAY 


131 


tween us you will simply put a stop to everything. 
And what will your future be as his daughter in 
Boulogne? The child of a man no decent per- 
son cares to know! Do you wish to go back to 
him, Yolande? Do you wish to break off our en- 
gagement? Answer me!” 

There was a kind of fierce vehemence in his 
tone as he uttered these harsh words. Yo- 
lande felt as if he were deliberately tearing her 
cherished idol from its pedestal and disclosing 
the feet of clay. And he had told her that this 
was common knowledge. She was the only per- 
son still in ignorance of her father’s real charac- 
ter. She had never, thanks to Tibby, had the 
slightest knowledge of it, nor of the money flung 
so recklessly away at the gaming-tables of Eu- 
rope, nor of the brain dulled by absinthe-drinking. 
And she knew by instinct that it was true. It 
explained so many things to her that had been 
mysterious and unaccountable. It explained the 
fact that she had so few friends of her own age, 
and that the French people in Boulogne did not 
care for her to associate with their children. It 
was all true, but until now no one had had the 
courage to tell her. 

She wrenched herself free, and flung herself 
trembling and sobbing upon the sofa, her face 
hidden from him. “You are cruel . . . you are 
cruel!” . . . she cried passionately ; “and it is not 
true — my father has always been kind and good, 
and my mother loved him ! He is not what you 
say. You do not know him — you have never 
seen him!” 

“I have seen him,” replied Gifford calmly; 


132 


FINE CLAY 


“and every one knows the kind of man he is. If 
you prefer life with him to anything I can offer 
you, by all means go back to him. As it is, I can 
promise you he will be only too thankful to get 
you off his hands!” 

He was merciless now. He recognized that 
this was the last struggle, and he was determined 
to use every weapon that suggested itself. He 
was pitiless, as the Strodes were always pitiless 
when they were thwarted. Yolande looked up 
and encountered his hard and angry eyes, blaz- 
ing like twin flames. 

“I have given in about the Church,” he said, 
“but I am not going to give in about anything 
else. Make your choice now. If you love me — 
as I believe you love me — put these absurd 
scruples out of your mind. Trust yourself to 
me.” His voice suddenly softened and he 
stooped over her. “Yolande — darling — beloved 
— you are so alone, and I need you so much. 
Let us be happy together. . . . Remember when 
you knelt on the steps of the Calvary and prayed 
for my love. You have it now in full measure — 
don’t throw it away.” . . . 

He bent down lower, and turning her face to 
his put his lips to hers. “I love you,” he said; 
“don’t let anything stop our marriage now. 
Never fear that I shall not make you happy, Yo- 
lande. My whole life shall be spent for you and 
your happiness.” . . . 

She dragged herself to her feet. 

“You have taken everything away, Gifford,” 
she said in her cold grave way, “I seem to have 
only you left. I think it was very cruel of you, 


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but perhaps you were right to tell me the truth. 
No one has ever had the courage to tell me about 
papa before. It has hurt me — just now I 
thought I could not live for the pain. But you 
are right — I will marry you on Saturday. I 
. . . I feel so alone.” . . . 

“I had to tell you,” said Gifford; “I couldn’t 
let you ruin your life and mine for any one so 
worthless. I had to tell you,” and he tried to 
soften the harshness of his words with renewed 
caresses. “Now I am going to see the priest.” 

“And I shall have to see him, too, later,” said 
Yolande; “you know I must go to confession be- 
fore I am married. One must not approach any 
of the sacraments unless one is in a state of 
grace.” 

He smiled. “Amd are you not in a state of 
grace, my little angel darling?” he said. 

“Oh, but I have not been to confession for 
quite a long time,” said Yolande; “more than a 
month, I think.” 

Gifford kissed her. 

“Well, I must be going now, you dear little 
saint,” he said; “and I will come in this evening, 
and tell you the time of the wedding.” 

The word made her start a little. 

“My wedding!” she said, “you know I can’t be- 
lieve it, Gifford. It doesn’t seem quite like one, 
does it? — since I have no wedding-dress and no 
presents — not even a cake.” She laughed. 

“No — I’m afraid I’ve deprived you of every- 
thing a bride ought to have. Still, it’ll be 
awfully nice having it quite quiet without any 
fuss. A man nearly always looks such a fool on 


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his wedding day. Where shall we go to after- 
wards, Yolande?” 

“Oh, you must choose,” she said; “you see, I 
don’t know any places in England. You will 
perhaps be able to think of a nice quiet one that 
will suit us.” And she looked at him with grave 
serene eyes. All signs of that passionate grief of 
disillusionment had left her face; she was again 
the little white flower, fragile, delicate, solitary 
and withal so womanly. 

Gifford was always plausible, and perhaps he 
had never in his life been quite so plausible as he 
was during his interview with a very simple and 
unsuspecting priest that afternoon. He left 
nothing to chance, and had learned from a book 
exactly the nature of the questions which would 
be put to him. He was therefore quite ready 
with his answers. The impression he left upon 
the priest was that he was a very charming and 
frank young fellow. He depicted Major 
Pascoe with a degree of blackness which he 
scarcely merited, describing the loneliness of Yo- 
lande’s position, friendless and unprotected; he 
exhibited a straightforward desire to rescue her 
from most undesirable surroundings, and ex- 
pressed his willingness to permit her to practise 
her religion, and to have any possible children of 
the marriage baptized and brought up as Catho- 
lics. It ended by the priest agreeing to obtain 
the necessary dispensation for their marriage to 
take place. 

She was alone when he came to fetch her on 


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Saturday morning at an early hour, when half 
fashionable London was still in bed and asleep. 
She was sitting in the drawing-room, wearing the 
white embroidered dress of Tibby’s fashioning in 
which he had first seen her. She thought per- 
haps Tibby would like to know later on that she 
had worn this dress on her wedding day. 

GifF ord bent down and kissed her. To his sur- 
prise he saw that she was crying; the tears fell 
thickly, swiftly. 

“Darling — what is it?” 

She made an effort to choke back her tears. 

“It is the secrecy of it all. I wish papa and 
Tibby knew. Whatever he has done — whatever 
he has been — he is my father, and he has always 
been very kind to me.” . . . 

“Oh,” he said almost impatiently, “I do wish 
you wouldn’t go over all that old ground again. 
When once you are my wife we shall very soon 
be able to tell the whole world.” 

“But I have scruples — I cannot believe it is 
right. What did you tell the priest, Gifford?” 

“I explained my position — and yours — very 
fully to him. I found him very sympathetic. 
He saw the dangers to which you were exposed — 
through having such a father. Now are you 
ready, darling? We shall be late.” 

There were in those days of the early nineties 
neither taxis nor motors plying in the London 
streets. A sedate-looking brougham took the 
young couple to church. Gifford looked defiant 
and tremendously alive — just as he had done on 
the day when she had first seen him at the Villa 
Falaise. His pale, handsome face, with the 


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crisp and rather tawny hair, was set and stern; 
his gray eyes blazed with a strange fire. Even 
now he feared that his father might be having him 
watched, or that some one might yet step in and 
frustrate his purpose. All through that drive he 
held her hand in his. They scarcely spoke at all. 
The morning was gray and rather cold, and Yo- 
lande shivered a little in her thin muslin dress. 
She loved him, but to-day there was something 
about him that made her afraid too. He was so 
much her master. He was so capable of enforc- 
ing his will upon her. All the time she was think- 
ing: “What would Tibby say?” 

She remembered that Tibby had not liked him. 
And for the first time she began to tell herself 
that she knew him so little. She had never seen 
any of his people. They were intimate, but their 
lives, their surroundings, were strange to each 
other. The waves of love had borne her so 
swiftly into his arms, and in another hour she 
would be his wife. If there were really such 
harsh and desperate need for secrecy on account 
of Gifford’s father, she could still divine no 
reason for keeping her own father in the dark. 
Why had she been compelled to keep this irre- 
mediable step she was about to take from him 
and Tibby? Why had she tamely submitted to 
Gifford’s wishes in the matter? It seemed 
wholly wrong that she should be driving thus to 
church with her future husband, instead of being 
escorted thither by Major Pascoe. But it was 
too late to remedy this. She was there, and 
Gifford was holding her hand so tightly that it 


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hurt her, and she was glad of the pain because it 
served to distract her thoughts. And after all — 
she loved him. She had loved him from the first 
hour of their first meeting. She remembered the 
restless misery of those days when he went home 
to Merrywood Place. The sleepless nights 
when his face had haunted her, and she had the 
fear that he had gone away never to return. 
Now he was to be hers always. Yet the price 
she had paid seemed to her in those last moments 
a heavy one. No one must know — no one must 
be told — just as if they were doing a guilty and 
shameful thing in marrying each other. Least 
of all was she to tell the two people who loved her 
and desired her happiness. Gifford had 
smirched the faces of her idols, had spoken with 
violence of her father, with contempt of poor 
Tibby. And she had always loved Tibby — 
Tibby, who had been the one to teach her and 
caress her and forgive her for eight long years; 
Tibby who had taken the place of that never- 
known mother. 

. . . They were at the church door. The 
priest was there already, waiting for them. 
Two witnesses were present. The brief little 
ceremony was soon over, the ring was on her fin- 
ger, the words had been uttered that made her 
Gifford’s wife forever . . . forever. . . . 

His face was white to the lips; he held his head 
in a defiant way; his eyes were blazing. She al- 
most felt, as she timidly looked at him, that he 
had the aspect of a man who is undergoing 
secretly some subtle torture. Yet she could not 


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meet the look in his eyes ... so triumphant — 
so passionate . . . through all its suggestion of 
pain. . . . 

As she signed the register her glance happened 
to fall upon Gifford’s signature which was still 
wet. He had written somewhat indistinctly, and 
had put only “John Denis Lumleigh.” His 
father’s name was entered simply as John Lum- 
leigh. There was no mention of his title. 

Yolande did not think much of it at the time; 
she was too deeply engrossed in writing her own 
name in full, Yolande Mary Veronica Pascoe. 
But when they got into the brougham to drive 
away she turned to ask him about it. 

“Why didn’t you put Gifford?” she said. “I 
didn’t know you had any other names.” 

“Oh, Gifford is only my last name, and I never 
use it in business matters, or for signing cheques. 
John Denis is quite enough.” 

“It didn’t seem like you,” she said. 

“If it comes to that,” he said lightly, “I didn’t 
know either that you had all those names. Jolly 
pretty ones too!” 

Then he suddenly turned to her. 

“Yolande — my beloved — my wife” . . . He 
kissed her again and again; she lay passively in 
his arms. 

“Yes — I am your wife now, Gifford,” she said. 

They drove in silence to Paddington Station 
on their way to Devonshire. 


CHAPTER XIII 


T he place Gifford had chosen was close to the 
sea on the southern coast of Devonshire. It 
was a place of deep red cliffs, some of which stood 
quite out in the sea, of shining sand and tranquil 
blue waters. It was too soon for the regular 
tourist season, and there were as yet not many 
people in the quiet hotel where Gifford had taken 
rooms. It faced the sea, and the soft, mild, 
humid air blew in pleasantly through the win- 
dows. After the heat of London the quiet and 
comparative coolness of Devonshire revived Yo- 
lande, who had been undergoing, although she 
scarcely realized it, a time of great anxiety and 
tension. She was glad now that it had come to 
an end, and hoped soon that all the world would 
know she was Gifford’s wife. She longed to 
write to her father, but as yet she had not liked to 
suggest this to Gifford. She felt that he held 
too harsh an opinion of him, and that made it dif- 
ficult for her to approach the subject. 

Sometimes they went by train up to the great 
moorland, which seemed to Yolande such a won- 
derful and mysterious place, flushed with 
purple and pink heather that was now beginning 
to blossom, and golden with great spaces of 
flowering gorse. The granite tors, lifting harsh 
and grim shapes against the blue summer sky, 


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possessed a strange fascination for Yolande. 
England was so new to her, and it had given her 
this wonderful gift just as in her childish dreams 
she had believed that it might. She was radi- 
antly happy, and Gifford was happy too. They 
were as gay as two children. Even the days at 
the Villa Falaise and at the Chalet des Pins had 
held nothing approaching to this happiness. 
Yolande begged to go and stay up on the moors 
for a few days, so that they might be even more 
alone than they were at the seaside. Gifford 
readily agreed, and soon found rooms in a com- 
fortable farmhouse. This place so delighted Yo- 
lande that she expressed a wish to live always in 
a Devonshire farmhouse. The spacious sunny 
rooms, the dark-beamed ceilings, the old panel- 
ing, the bits of odd china and furniture of black 
oak, enchanted her. 

“I should like always to have wide empty 
rooms,” she said, “with lots of sunshine and fresh 
air. Hardly any carpets and very little furni- 
ture. I think it is because I have always had 
such small stifling rooms in the pensions , with 
thick carpets and curtains, and velvet chairs that 
seemed to take all the air away.” 

“But, my darling, I’m afraid we shall never be 
able to afford big spacious rooms. We’ll have 
to look out for a tiny flat in town, and I shall 
have to go and work in the City every day.” 

“I like the country best,” she said. “Couldn’t 
you work in the country instead of in the City, 
Gifford?” 

Gifford shook his head. Indeed, the question 
of their future was a problem which troubled him 


FINE CLAY 


141 


very deeply. There was not a great deal left of 
the fifty pounds, and he had offered no gift to his 
little bride except the great heavy wedding ring 
he had put on her finger on her marriage day. 
Only she had never seemed to expect gifts. She 
was happy and unquestioning as a child. But 
one day she said to him : 

“Gifford, don’t you think if we were to go to 
the Place now, and tell your father that we are 
married, he might forgive you? Do you think he 
would still dislike me so very much? People do 
not always dislike me!” 

“No,” he said, with one of his sudden moods 
of somber bitterness, “they do not always dislike 
you. Sometimes they love you too much for 
their peace of mind, my little Yolande.” 

But she was in a mischievous mood and did not 
want him to be too serious. 

“And is that how you love me, Gifford?” she 
demanded, going up to him. 

He held her, looking down, as if entranced, 
upon the perfect beauty of her face — so much 
more perfect to his seeming than it had ever 
been before. But his face did not lighten as he 
answered : “Yes, that is how I love you, and that 
is why I married you.” 

“But you’re glad too, Gifford? Don’t speak 
like that, as if you were sorry.” 

“If I am sorry it is for your sake and not for 
my own,” he answered. “I’m nothing but a 
pauper — I can’t afford to keep a wife. So I had 
no business on earth to marry you, Yolande.” 
He kissed her with a strange tenderness. 

“I don’t mind being poor,” she whispered back, 


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touching his forehead lightly with her lips; “the 
only poverty would be to be without you, Gifford. 
I should feel starved.” . . . 

She went to the window and looked out at the 
sweeping expanse of moorland, colored like a 
pansy in the radiant July sunset. 

“To-night we’ll go out, Gifford,” she said, “for 
a long, long walk under the stars. And we shall 
not have to hurry home as we did at the Chalet. 
If we choose we can stay out there all night. I 
should love that — to wait and watch for all the 
shy wild things that come out of the woods at 
night and play in the moonlight. Wouldn’t it 
be lovely, Gifford?” 

“Yes — and you’d be devoured by gnats and 
midges,” he said, laughing. But he knew it was 
what he would like to do — to go out with her 
thus to the silent purple moorland, and lie there 
in the bracken and heather under the stars, and 
watch for the dawn to come with white delicate 
radiant feet across the sea, touching the grim tors 
to gold. . . . “But anyhow you shall have your 
walk.” 

It was one of their last evenings at the farm- 
house. They started about nine o’clock when 
the July dusk was falling thickly, heavy with 
dew and perfume. A young sickle moon hung 
in the sky. All around them lay the wide desert- 
world of blossoming heather, a place suggestive 
of innumerable magic if invisible presences. 
Above them the hills and tors were etched in 
blurred silhouette against a sky liquid with 
moonlight and strewn with stars. The gurgle 
of a little brook hurrying over brown stones made 


FINE CLAY 


143 


a pleasant music in their ears. Furry baby 
things flashed out and then disappeared. Birds 
kept up a sleepy twitter in the trees. Sometimes 
an owl passed over their heads, uttering its long, 
savage, and melancholy cry. The wind rustled 
in the dry heather and sang in the trees. But 
except for these wild sounds the place was very 
silent, very lonely. Yolande had wished to ex- 
perience this feeling of being quite alone in some 
untenanted world with Gifford. She felt that 
it would make her seem more completely his. 
And out here on the moorland they seemed to 
be perfectly alone. Sometimes they could see a 
light from a distant farmhouse or cottage prick- 
ing the darkness. But such lights were all very 
far away, they did not seem much nearer than 
the stars that flickered overhead. 

The sea was a long way off, and they could 
not hear it, but something of its keen salt fresh- 
ness was borne to them on the wings of the night 
wind. And once a seagull flew past with a sharp 
cry. It looked like some ghost bird, and it 
startled Yolande. She held Gifford’s arm, and 
seemed contented to walk on thus in silence. 

Presently she said: “Don’t you love it here, 
Gifford?” 

“Yes — I love it,” he answered. “I should love 
any place with you, Yolande.” It was the 
lover’s conventional reply, but to-night she felt 
that his words were sad as well as earnest. And 
he looked down at her small uplifted face. She 
was more than ever an ethereal thing fashioned 
of white foam and whiter flame. . . . She be- 
longed to the brown woods and the wild moor- 


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land and the wet sea winds, just as she had 
seemed to belong to that white world of blown 
sand that in the moonlight looked like a range 
of miniature Alps crowned with silver snows. 

“We have known each other just seven weeks,” 
she said. “Can you realize that, Gifford? 
Eight weeks ago you did not know me — you had 
never heard my name. And now we are here 
together. Can you believe it? Sometimes I feel 
that I shall wake up and find myself back with 
Tibby in the pension — alone — without you. 
You seem part of a splendid dream, Gif- 
ford.” . . . 

She held his hand, stroking it, caressing it. 
He had taught her all the sweet and tender ways 
of love. 

“Oh, my darling — I know it seems too good 
to be true that we should be here together like 
this ! I wish we could remain here forever. The 
world is such a horrible place, and there are so 
many evil people in it. And we are so happy — 
just our two selves . . . like this.” There was 
passion in his voice as well as tenderness. She 
was infinitely dearer to him now than she had 
ever been before, and he had always loved her. 
And she had prayed for his love. He could 
not forget that. . . . Surely some day there 
would be a straight path for them both to tread, 
side by side and hand in hand, even as now. . . . 

“How sad you are, Gifford,” she said; “is it 
the night that makes you so sad? Or is it per- 
haps the stars? They always seem to watch us 
rather sorrowfully, I think, as if they could see 
all the mistakes we are making, and perhaps they 


FINE CLAY 


145 


are saying: ‘There are two people, young and 
foolish, and who love each other, and who ought 
never to have married/ ” 

“Oh, Yolande — don’t say such things! It 
sounds so dreadfully unlucky when I feel that 
the whole world is conspiring to rob me of you,” 
he entreated. 

“Should you mind that so very much — if I 
went away from you, dear Gifford, and never, 
never came back? Would you lie awake and 
cry as I did those first nights at the Chalet des 
Pins?” 

“I don’t know about crying,” said Gifford, 
“but I think it would kill me. I shouldn’t want 
to live any longer if you left me Yolande. But 
why do you talk about such dismal possibilities 
or, rather, impossibilities? You surely won’t 
leave me now you are my wife? Wives don’t 
leave their husbands so easily — and women like 
you are faithful.” . . . 

“We won’t talk of it,” she said gently, “since 
it makes you unhappy. I’m so happy to-night 
I could dance.” 

“You are a fairy — I believe you will vanish 
like a will-o’-the-wisp,” he said grudgingly. 
“Unless I hold you, Yolande,” and he caught h£r 
arm in a grip that was fierce. 

“I don’t need holding, Gifford,” she said 
gently; “I don’t want to escape. Doesn’t it com- 
fort you to think I’m a Catholic, and that with 
us marriage is a sacrament and indissoluble? 
So, you see, I could never leave you — I could 
never go away.” . . . 

His hold on her arm relaxed ever so slightly. 


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Something in her earnest words had startled 
him. He said in a constrained, almost harsh, 
voice : 

“I don’t know much about Catholics. I don’t 
think I knew any — at least not well — until I 
knew you. My people don’t care about them. 
Lots of people in England dislike the Catholic 
Church.” 

“Oh, do they?” she said, in a disappointed tone. 
“Tibby always said she hoped I should marry a 
Catholic.” 

Gifford said with sudden violence: 

“What do Churches and creeds matter? 
We’ve got to find out where our happiness lies, 
and take it and stick to it ! I think your Church 
is very beautiful, but it can be cruel, too. Its 
marriage laws are cruel — they do not consider 
the individual at all. No set of men have a right 
to make laws for other men, especially when it 
is not a question of crime. We have to punish 
the thief and the murderer for the good and 
safety of the community, but surely every man 
has a right to marry where he loves !” He spoke 
vehemently. 

“Is that the reason,” she asked, “why your 
people did not wish you to marry me — because I 
am a Catholic?” 

Gifford wished at that moment he could hon- 
estly have said that it was. But he had never 
mentioned the fact to his father. He said rather 
awkwardly : 

“I don’t think that was the only thing. But 
they always oppose me in everything I want to 
do. Don’t let us talk about such disagreeable 


FINE CLAY 


147 


things, darling. Let us enjoy this lovely night. 
Look at that road climbing over the top of the 
moor — how white and shining it is in the moon- 
light! What a lonely place this is!” 

They sat down to rest on the dry heather, his 
arm around her, her head on his shoulder. Over- 
head the dark blue sky was thick with stars. All 
the landscape was painted in subtle monochrome 
in the moonlight. It was very still, only the oc- 
casional cries of night-birds broke the silence. 

Yolande fell asleep at last, and Gifford, not 
liking to disturb her, sat there guarding her, until 
the dawn awoke in the eastern sky. He had no 
wish to sleep. He tried to put aside all per- 
plexing thoughts of the future with its tremen- 
dous uncertainty, its fears, and the terror that 
her own words had put into his heart. A new 
terror which seemed to conspire with all the rest 
to drag her from his side. 

She opened her eyes and looked at him sleepily. 

“Oh, Gifford, where are we? I think I must 
have been asleep.” 

He bent down and kissed her. 

“Yes,” he said; “you have been asleep. And 
it will be daylight in a few minutes. Shall we 
go back — do you think you can walk so far?” 

Her look of fragility struck him afresh. 

She struggled to her feet. “I had a lovely 
sleep. . . . Didn’t you go to sleep too, Gif- 
ford?” 

“No,” he said, “I couldn’t sleep; I was think- 
ing of you all the time. I was keeping guard 
over you, Yolande.” . . . 


CHAPTER XIV 


B righton was in its August mood when Gif- 
ford went there with Yolande about the mid* 
die of the month. Extravagantly he insisted 
upon taking a suite of rooms at one of the large 
hotels facing the sea. But he wished to avoid 
meeting chance acquaintances in the public sit- 
ting-rooms, for he felt that he could not face the 
inevitable questioning which must supervene. 
He had not chosen Brighton without misgiving. 
But he wished to be near town in order to search 
for employment and, though his father and Rex 
often came to Brighton on business, and his 
mother did much of her shopping in the King’s 
Road and East Street, he thought there was 
little likelihood of encountering any of them just 
now. For at this time of year, in compliance 
with immemorial habit, they repaired to Scot- 
land for grouse-shooting. It was the first time 
Gifford could ever remember that he had not ac- 
companied them. 

The weather was fine, but with that frequent 
chilliness which characterizes Brighton even on 
its days of sunniest glare; the blazing sunshine 
accompanied by those sudden icy airs made to 
Yolande’s thinking disagreeable climatic condi- 
tions; she infinitely preferred the suave moist 
warmth of the Devonshire coast. But Gifford 
said their brief holiday must come to an end. 

148 


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149 


And in the meantime Brighton was better than 
London in these days of August heat. 

And the place amused her enormously. She 
was interested in the itinerant musicians and 
troupes of musicians; in the family who each 
played a different instrument and were said to 
inhabit a lovely house in the north during the 
rest of the year, out of the proceeds of their 
summer earnings; in the masked men who sang 
sentimental ballads in throaty tenor voices, and 
in the indefatigable ventriloquists around whom 
the idle crowds gathered daily on the front. She 
liked, too, to watch the hordes of London tourists 
and cheap trippers making their eager way to 
the sea on excursion days. The great cream- 
colored houses, with their air of substantial opu- 
lence, which faced the sea were for the most part 
closely shuttered, and wore a deserted aspect as 
if their inhabitants had proudly abandoned 
Brighton to the disorderly trippers, and the 
armies of children who made a daily descent to 
the beach in company with their white-gowned 
nurses. 

Gifford was already in treaty with one or two 
firms from which he hoped ultimately to obtain 
employment, although he feared that the Eng- 
lish equivalent to ten thousand francs, which had 
been the minimum stipulated upon by Madame 
Dourlay for the modest upkeep of her daughter’s 
menage, would scarcely be forthcoming. It 
would be dreadful to take Yolande even tem- 
porarily to cheap London lodgings with their 
dinginess and dirt. Still more did he dislike the 
propects of becoming a “City” man. He had 


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very small business capacity, and he had never 
done a day’s work in his life. He wrote to Mr. 
Hurrell, the family lawyer, told him that he was 
in disgrace at Merrywood, and asked him to ar- 
range a loan of one hundred pounds for him. 
This was done, so that he was not for the 
moment in financial stress. Still it could 
not be denied that the future wore a dark out- 
look. 

“Is Merrywood far from here?” she asked one 
day when it first dawned upon her that both 
Brighton and Merrywood were in Sussex. 

“Oh, yes — a good long way,” he answered care- 
lessly, “about fifteen miles. And you have to 
change trains. It’s a tiresome journey.” 

“Shall you go there and see your father?” 

“Certainly not. He’s the last person in the 
world I want to see.” 

They had finished breakfast. Yolande was 
sitting by the window watching the scene below. 
As yet it was too early to be animated. But 
some children were driving along the hard as- 
phalt of the sea-front in their miniature car- 
riages drawn by goats. The sea was rough to- 
day and very blue, with dark green-gray shadows 
and tossing yellow crests of foam. She could 
hear the waves thundering on the beach. 

Gifford lit a cigarette. 

“Besides, they aren’t there now. They always 
go to Scotland in August to shoot grouse. My 
father’s got a moor. I hate killing birds.” 

“I should like you to have gone — and told him 
of our marriage and asked his forgiveness,” she 
said. 


FINE CLAY 151 

He came across the room and touched her 
hair. 

“Should you, my little Yolande? It wouldn’t 
have done any good.” 

He opened the morning paper and glanced at 
the news. 

“Mrs. Vernon’s dead,” he said; “she died yes- 
terday. I suppose the Marquise will be going 
back to France. Did you write to her?” 

“Only that once.” She had written at Gif- 
ford’s dictation a few days after their wedding, 
to tell her that she was away on a visit. A letter 
of much the same import had been sent to Tibby. 
Yolande hated these petty duplicities; she would 
much rather have told them the plain truth, but 
Gifford had forbidden this with some show of 
anger. 

“Let’s hope she won’t run across your father 
and Tibby,” said Gifford. 

“I don’t expect she’ll go to Boulogne,” said 
Yolande, “she never does at this time of year. 
Generally she takes the waters somewhere, or 
visits her daughter. But I should like to write 
home soon, Gifford, if you will let me,” she went 
on timidly; “I am sure that poor Tibby is getting 
anxious. I had a letter from her this morning. 
Papa had not returned either, so she is still 
alone.” 

“There’ll be plenty of time to tell them,” said 
Gifford, “why, we have only been married five 
weeks. Our honeymoon isn’t over.” 

“Tibby asks me when I am going back. And 
she says I tell her nothing — not even the names 
of the friends with whom I am staying.” 


152 


FINE CLAY 


“But surely if it’s anyone’s business it is your 
father’s? And he doesn’t exhibit the slightest 
curiosity on the subject.” 

“Papa is away, you see. Perhaps he scarcely 
realizes.” . . . 

“My dear child — how awfully obstinate you 
are ! Isn’t it enough for you that I’d much rather 
you didn’t tell them anything just yet? Do trust 
me that I know best, my darling.” 

In his mind was an unformulated wish that 
one of those mysterious heart-attacks, from which 
Major Pascoe was supposed periodically to suf- 
fer, might carry him off and leave his daughter 
perfectly free from outside interference. 

As they passed through the hall that morning 
on the way out Yolande noticed a group of peo- 
ple sitting on wicker-chairs in the wide porch 
that faced the sea. One woman especially at- 
tracted her attention. She was standing there 
smoking a cigarette in the daintiest possible fash- 
ion; she had evidently just risen from one of the 
wicker-chairs to look at something that interested 
her outside. Yolande could not help remarking 
her. She was tiny, but slight and beautifully 
dressed in white, with white shoes and stockings 
on her small feet. Her skirt was much shorter 
than the fashion of those days approved, and it 
gave her almost the appearance of being quite a 
young girl. She wore a blue hat tilted a little 
over her face, although it did not conceal her 
bright golden hair. She had large blue eyes, and 
she was really pretty, but her cheeks were rouged 
and her lips were painted carmine; she looked, 
Yolande thought, like a charming little actress. 


FINE CLAY 


153 


She bestowed an interested stare upon Yolande, 
who passed quickly on, but the next moment she 
was arrested by a voice exclaiming : 

“Why, Gifford — what are you doing here? 
Fancy our meeting like this! Aren’t you going 
to speak to me? You surely don’t bear me any 
ill-will now?” Her impertinently good-hu- 
mored speech was punctuated by shrill laughter 
that grated on Yolande’s ears. She moved back 
a step and looked at her husband. 

Gifford was pale as death; his brows met in a 
fierce frown ; his gray eyes were blazing with tem- 
per. 

“Don’t dare speak to me!” he said rudely. 
“Come away, Yolande,” and he took his wife’s 
arm and half -helped her, half-pushed her down 
the steps. 

But the relentless Cockney voice pursued 
them. 

“But, Gifford, old boy, do stop one minute and 
tell me your news! I’ve married again, as I told 
you I should — and so have you, I suppose ? But 
I never saw anything about it in the paper, 
though I’ve kept a sharp look out for it.” . . . 

“Don’t listen to her. Come away, Yolande.” 
Gifford’s voice sounded now more desperate than 
angry. “For God’s sake, come away, Yolande!” 

He hailed a cab and put her into it. In an- 
other moment they were driving westward. But 
not until Yolande had heard that shrill coarse 
laugh again — such a strange sound to issue from 
those pretty painted lips. That sound was des- 
tined to ring in Yolande’s ears for many a long 
day. 


154 


FINE CLAY 


“Who was that woman, Gifford?” she said. 

The expression on his face — so dark and stormy 
and troubled — alarmed her. He did not speak. 
She noticed that his hands were shaking as he 
took out a cigarette and lit it. 

“Thank heaven, we are out of that!” he said at 
last. 

Something of his terror had communicated 
itself to her. She felt a great, a passionate, de- 
sire to know the truth. It was suddenly revealed 
to her that Gifford’s desire for secrecy and ret- 
icence had had another motive of which he had 
never told her. There was a mystery and she 
must know it. It was not right that a man should 
hide things — important things — from his wife. 
She looked at him squarely. Under her steady 
gaze he looked down. 

“You must tell me who that woman was, Gif- 
ford,” she said very quietly. 

“My dear child, must I dot all the i’s? She 
had no business to speak to me at all. And I’m 
not sure what her name is now. She used to be 
a chorus girl in a musical comedy. Do you want 
to know any more?” 

“She said she had married again and asked if 
you had done so,” said Yolande. She thought 
she should hear those fatal words echoing forever 
in her ears. “Were you ever married before you 
married me, Gifford?” 

He tried to evade the question. 

“My darling — don’t let’s talk about her. Can’t 
you see how upset lam? I hated her coming up 
and speaking to us like that, when you were 
there.” . . . His eyes were hard. 


FINE CLAY 


155 


He would have taken her hand but she drew 
it sharply away. They were passing the Hove 
lawns — green, smooth stretches of turf. West- 
ward the low Worthing shore was softly painted 
in tones of lilacs and gray, dipping slightly into 
the sea. The glare from the pavements hurt her 
eyes. 

“Was that woman ever your wife, Gifford?” 
she said. 

He was silent. He had felt that she would 
ask this question. And it was difficult to lie to 
her now — as he had lied so many times. 

“My darling Yolande — please don’t go dig- 
ging into my past life !” 

“I want to know the truth,” she said; “you 
must tell me the truth now, Gifford. You 
mustn’t keep me in the dark any longer. Was 
she your wife? Were you ever married, before 
you married me? You must tell me this if you 
please, Gifford.” Her voice was cold and inex- 
orable. 

“It can’t make any difference now,” said Gif- 
ford; “you are my wife now by all the laws in 
England — nothing can change that, thank God! 
Yes — she used to be my wife. I married her 
when I was only twenty, and divorced her the 
following year. She ran away with another 
man. I suppose she married him — I didn’t take 
the trouble to inquire.” . . . 

Yolande’s face was set and white, as if it had 
been carved in marble. 

“Do you know what you are saying, Gif- 
ford? You had a wife alive when you married 
me?” 


156 


FINE CLAY 


“But I tell you I had divorced her. She 
wasn’t my wife any longer. I had divorced her. 
I was free.” * . . 

“But she is your wife. I am a Catholic. Di- 
vorce has no meaning for us. I am not your wife, 
Gifford — I have never been your wife. You 
must have lied to the priest — as you lied to me! 
Will you stop the cab, please? I wish to get 
out.” 

“Why, you’re mad, Yolande! What do you 
want to do?” 

“I am going to leave you, Gifford.” 

“But you can’t leave me! You are my wife. 
By the laws of England we are legally mar- 
ried.” . . . 

“I do not understand laws. I obey the Church. 
And the Church tells me that I cannot be your 
wife. I am going to leave you — this very day — 
this very hour!” 

Her eyes were dark with pain, her lips firmly 
set. She looked more beautiful than he had ever 
seen her look. 

“You can’t do that,” he said doggedly; “we 
are married — you’re my wife. ... We must 
stick to each other.” 

“I am a wicked woman,” she said; “you have 
made me wicked. It was you who forced me to 
keep our marriage a secret. It was you who 
made me deceive my father and Tibby. But I 
can atone. I will never see you again. I am 
going home to my father!” . . . 

The cab stopped. Yolande stepped out on to 
the pavement. She was hardly aware of the peo- 
ple who passed them, and gazed curiously at the 


FINE CLAY 157 

tall, handsome young couple, who seemed to be 
disagreeing about something. 

“But you can’t go like this — alone,” he stam- 
mered. “You are my wife, Yolande — my be- 
loved wife.” . . . His voice broke. 

“I have never been your wife,” she repeated. 
Even now she held her head proudly. But her 
eyes seemed to look beyond Gifford. “That is 
my great shame.” . . . She shuddered. How 
evil had suddenly become that wonderful love she 
had given him ! How dark with shame were now 
those few weeks of life with him! . . . How 
wicked he seemed to her all at once, with his glib 
and easy lies, his planned and considered de- 
ceits ! 

“Oh, my dear,” ... he said, “you mustn’t go 
— you mustn’t leave me. You said once that you 
would never leave me. And I love you.” . . . 

“I am going. You must not try and stop me. 
I am nothing to you — nothing at all. I am only 
the woman you taught to be wicked. I am go- 
ing.” She repeated those last three words with 
a tragic mournfulness; they fell on his ears like a 
recurring knell. 

“You can’t go — like this — alone,” he said again 
stubbornly; “you can’t go without your lug- 
gage.” . . . 

“I have enough money to take me back to 
France. And' I am going home.” Her heart 
sank a little at the thought of that return. “If 
you wish you can send my boxes with the things 
I had as a girl. . . . Nothing else. You must 
not try and keep me, Gifford. I am not your 
wife.” 


158 


FINE CLAY 


“You shan’t go, Yolande.” His anger was 
stirred. He seized her, held her hand brutally as 
in a vice. “I know nothing of your Church and 
its laws. We are in England, where the Pope’s 
laws don’t count. You are my wife, and I will 
never let you leave me.” 

The green grass of the long lawns, the shining 
white pavement, the violently blue sea with its 
rough yellow crests of foam, were all confused 
and blurred to her vision. All her thoughts were 
centered upon the one thing — to leave him as 
soon as possible. Every moment that she spent 
with him now seemed to soil her soul. 

“Let go my hands, Gifford. Don’t make a 
scene here, please. I am going to the station.” 
She freed herself — how she never knew — from 
that fierce and painful grasp of his, and ran 
across the road. She got into a cab and told the 
man to drive to the station. Gifford, amazed 
and still unbelieving, stood there like one trans- 
fixed, watching her. The clatter of the horse’s 
hoofs on the hard road made him think of the 
clang of earth falling upon the lowered coffin-lid 
in some deep grave. Yolande had left him. . . . 


CHAPTER XV 


I t was evening when the steamer entered Bou- 
logne harbor. The masts and rigging of the 
ships lying at anchor were delicately etched 
against a sky that was still blue and clear. Only, 
over the green valley of the Liane, a faint haze 
had fallen, blurring ever so slightly the hill of 
the Petit Moulin. The great Calvary perched 
almost on the edge of the cliff was quite clearly 
distinguishable — a conspicuous object to all trav- 
elers to and from that busy little port. But Yo- 
lande turned her eyes away from it. She could 
not bear to look at it now. It would always be 
associated for her with the beginning of her great, 
her ineradicable shame. It was there she had 
knelt and prayed; it was there that Gifford had 
first told her that he loved her; it was there that 
he had first held her in his arms, and touched her 
lips with his own. Not three months ago she had 
stood there with him, listening to his passionate 
words of love. Love had come to her in no small, 
in no stinted measure. And she had given love 
for love; she had given her whole heart to Gif- 
ford. Now she felt that that love had blinded 
and bewildered her, weakening her will. She 
was coming back bankrupt and outcast, stripped 
of all she had once possessed. The beautiful ad- 
venture was at an end. She was coming back, 

159 


160 


FINE CLAY 


as the prodigal had come back, to plead for mercy 
and forgiveness. Her hands were empty and 
her heart was desolate. She had believed her- 
self to be Gifford’s wife, and she had never been 
his wife. She felt as if she were no longer the 
same Yolande who had gone to England so hap- 
pily with the Marquise. For the first time she 
realized quite clearly that the step she had taken 
could never be wiped off the slate of her life. It 
was a permanent thing, capable of influencing 
the future as well as the present, capable, too, of 
affecting other lives, and of bringing a host of 
painful consequences in its train. 

On the quay Tibby’s short and square form 
awaited her. She had telegraphed to Tibby from 
London. It was a relief at first to see her, and to 
observe how unaltered she was — how unchanged 
the shabby coat and skirt of dark blue serge, the 
hard white sailor hat, which she invariably wore on 
week-days. Yolande had a sudden eager long- 
ing to fling herself into Tibby’s arms and weep 
upon her shoulder. She had not wept at all yet ; 
she had not shed a single tear all through her 
journey; she felt as hard as if she had been en- 
cased in armor. It was the sight of Tibby, so 
unchanged, so incapable, as it were, of change 
that seemed suddenly to diminish her strength. 
She felt incredibly old. She was so much older 
in experience than Tibby. She was older than 
any one else in the world. But she straightened 
herself and held her head erect. She would at 
least wear the panoply of pride in the hour of her 
humiliation. 


FINE CLAY 


161 


“Oh, Tibby dear — how nice to see you again!” 
she said almost eagerly; “it seems such ages since 
I went away. How is papa?” 

“Oh, he’s very well,” said Tibby, kissing her. 
“He only came back last night. He seemed to 
miss your going to meet him. I do believe you’ve 
got thinner, Yolande. And, child — how white 
you are ! Late hours don’t suit you.” She looked 
rather earnestly into Yolande’s face. The girl 
instinctively averted her head. It had come to 
this then — she could not look her dear old Tibby 
in the face! She felt sure that her own terrible 
experience must be written in her eyes— for 
Tibby, indeed for all the world, to see. 

They walked slowly along the quay towards 
the bridge that spanned the docks. 

“You didn’t write often,” she went on. “I 
suppose you were too gay, and too taken up with 
these new friends of yours you were staying with. 
Were there any girls of your own age?” 

“N-no,” said Yolande hesitatingly. She 
quickened her pace. “And I’m sorry papa 
missed me. But I’ve come back for good now. 
I don’t ever mean to go away again.” 

“Didn’t you like England?” asked Tibby 
bluntly. 

“I liked it well enough at first. But now I 
hate it — I never want to go there again!” 

“Perhaps you’ll find it dull in Boulogne now — 
after London?” 

Yolande slipped her arm in Miss Tibbit’s. 
“Dear Tibby — of course I shan’t. It’s lovely 
seeing it all again !” 

“There — I knew you’d feel like that!” said 


162 


FINE CLAY 


Tibby, with a contented purr; “it was your father 
who kept on saying you’d be sure to get engaged 
over there, and come back to tell us that you were 
going to be married and live in England for the 
rest of your life!” 

Yolande turned very pale, and the hand that 
grasped Tibby ’s arm was quickly withdrawn. 

“But there’s no truth in that I’m sure, my 
dear?” said Tibby. “You wouldn’t get engaged 
without telling your father and me?” 

“I shall never marry — I have made up my mind 
to that, Tibby,” said Yolande, with a strange ve- 
hemence, and a wave of crimson color passed over 
the pallor of her face. 

“Girls often say that. But when the right man 
comes.” . . . 

“He’ll never come — for me,” said Yolande with 
decision. 

“And I thought you were falling in love with 
that young Lumleigh only a month or two ago,” 
said Tibby teasingly. 

She looked up, laughing, but the odd expression 
in Yolande’s eyes alarmed her. “Why, what is 
it, my dear?” she said. 

“Nothing, Tibby dear. Only I think it is a 
mistake to speak lightly and laughingly . . . 
about such a very serious thing as falling in love.” 

“You’re right, my dear. It is a serious thing 
— yet people do laugh at two young things in 
love with each other.” 

I wonder why they do,” said Yolande dream- 
ily; “love can be . . . such a terrible thing . . . 
such a wicked thing!” 

“Dear child — where do you get such strange 


FINE CLAY 


163 


ideas from?” said Miss Tibbit uneasily. “Who 
has been talking to you — about such dreadful 
things?” 

Yolande was silent for a moment. Then she 
said in a cold tone : 

“No one has been talking to me exactly, Tibby. 
Girls get to know these things. Tibby — love 
isn’t always beautiful — it can be evil and cruel. 
That is why I don’t ever want to be married. 
Let’s talk of something else. Have you seen 
Madame de Solignac? I don’t think, though, 
that she can have come back, for her friend only 
died yesterday.” 

“No — I’ve not seen her.” 

They had reached the door of the pension . Yo- 
lande went straight upstairs to her father’s sit- 
ting-room, a small and stuffy apartment at the 
top of the house. He was sitting near the win- 
dow, smoking and reading the New York Her- 
ald . As she stooped to kiss him he put down his 
pipe and gathered her closely. The action so 
full of simple affection touched her unspeakably. 
“My darling child — my dear Yolande!” he said, 
kissing her. 

She was prepared to find a change in him, yet 
she hated to perceive the subtle metamorphosis 
from the man she had always believed him to be 
to the man whom Gifford had so harshly con- 
demned. She saw him with new eyes, as of a per- 
son just awakened, and was aware that his whole 
appearance was in keeping with Gifford’s esti- 
mate of him. He was seedy-looking, patraque , 
as the French say, a little out of repair. Since 
his summer escapade he had descended further 


164 


FINE CLAY 


upon that downward course. But despite his in- 
herent unreliableness, his instability, he still spelt 
to Yolande something that was as permanent and 
changeless as the everlasting hills. He was her 
father, and he had never failed in kindness. 
Amid so much that was fugitive and perishable 
she saw in him something that was enduringlv 
secure and dear. And it was he, Maxim Pascoe, 
who had placed in his daughter’s hands that 
weapon which at the crisis of her life she had 
been forced to turn so mercilessly upon herself, 
piercing therewith her own heart. 

Like the woman in the old fairy-tale, she had 
asked and received, and asked and received with 
an easy facility that mocked at obstacles, only 
in the end to awaken and find herself back in the 
cottage from which she originally came. De- 
nuded of all — flung back upon penury. . . . 
And as she stood there those English scenes 
passed swiftly through her mind. The London 
streets, gay and thronged, yet holding for her 
but the one face ; the Park crowded with women 
in dainty summer attire moving under the trees 
like bright, yet languid butterflies. The theaters 
and opera-house, where the lights and jewels 
flashed amid scenes of unimagined brilliance. 
Then Devonshire, with its wooded combes 
dipping to the sea ; the red cliffs, the blue waters 
. . . and the white seagulls crying above her 
head . . . the trees and ferns climbing down al- 
most to the foot of the sandy coves. The long 
sunny days on the moorland, and that one long 
remembered night when she had slept out on the 


FINE CLAY 


165 


moor under the stars, and had wakened to find 
Gifford near her, and the white dawn coming to- 
wards her as if upon delicate wings. But most 
clear in its sharp, hard brilliance was that last 
scene — enacted only that very morning, although 
it seemed now as if it must have happened years 
and years ago — when she had parted from Gif- 
ford at Brighton. She saw him as she had last 
seen him in the white glare of the street, standing 
there alone and dispossessed. She could feel 
compassion for him, though she had none for 
herself. He had played and lost with a royal 
recklessness. And she knew that there was one 
thing it was impossible he should ever lose — the 
love that he had in those last few weeks won from 
her. 

“I’m so glad to be back, papa,” she said; “I’ve 
missed you so, and Tibby too. It is the first 
time I have ever been away alone. And I don’t 
mean ever to go away again.” She put her 
cheek against his ; there was a new tenderness in 
her caress. Then the recoil came. It was Gif- 
ford who had taught her these new ways of ten- 
derness — Gifford who had pressed his hard cheek 
against hers and played with her fingers. The 
remembrance gave her a sharp pang; she drew a 
little away. 

“That’s right, my dear,” said the unsuspecting 
Maxim; “I’ve missed you too. I was afraid you 
were going to find some one better worth loving 
than your old Dad — some one who’d want you to 
go and live in England.” 

It was strange that this expectation should 


166 


FINE CLAY 


have occupied both her father’s thoughts and 
Tibby’s — an expectation, too, which had so nearly 
known realization. 

But she could not tell him yet. Not now when 
he was so manifestly delighted at seeing her 
again. 

“Oh, papa — how could you imagine anything 
so horrid? I shall begin to think you want to get 
rid of me !” 

He looked at her, and though his blue eyes 
were less bright than they used to be they still 
held a merry sparkle. 

“Were they all blind then?” he said. “Did 
none of them see what a pretty girl I’d got for 
a daughter?” He looked at her fondly. 

“You are prejudiced, papa,” she answered, 
smiling; “I’m not really a bit pretty . . . and 
the English girls are so pink and white, I feel 
quite brown beside them ! And the proof is . . . 
that I’ve come back to you and Tibby. ...” 

“I made sure that you would come back en- 
gaged at least, Yolande,” he said gaily. 

Not that he wanted to lose her, and it was 
good to have her back, but he remembered that 
old conversation when Tibby had taken him furi- 
ously to task, and he thought Yolande’s early 
marriage might solve many problems. And his 
heart had given him one or two sharp reminders 
of late. 

She flushed a little. “No — I’m not even en- 
gaged,” . . . she said. “And what is more, I 
never intend to be.” 

“Tut-tut!” said the Major. 

“I’ll go and take off my things,” said Yolande. 


FINE CLAY 


167 


She went slowly out of the room. She had 
borne the first brunt of their questionings, but 
all her nerves were on edge. She feared, above 
all things, to hear Gifford’s name spoken. Al- 
ready it had once escaped Tibby’s lips. She 
would have to tell them both very soon. She 
could not go on nursing this secret. And she 
would have to go to confession — to whom she 
could not yet make up her mind. And hidden 
in her heart, so deeply that she dared not yet 
acknowledge it to herself, there was a new and 
vital fear, luring in ambush, ready to crystallize 
into certainty. . . . 

Ah, if she could only put the clock back, and 
be again that happy girl, secure and sheltered, 
playing tennis at the Villa Falaise, walking on 
the Plage with Tibby, mending and darning, and 
hating the task and the petty restriction it in- 
volved . . . above all, if Fate had never drawn 
Gifford into her path and permitted her to love 
him! . . . 

She saw him now in his true light, stripped of 
all enchantment. . And in spite of all things she 
knew that she still loved him. The thought of 
that dark blank separation which lay in front of 
her was an appalling one. She could even make 
excuses for him. His home life had been an un- 
happy one, full of rebellion, of small mutinies, 
of angry scenes. His father’s harshness had 
embittered him and made him a little reckless. 
He retaliated by taking his pleasure where he 
could, regardless of others. His upbringing had 
developed all that was selfish and unscrupulous 
in his nature; had it been different she felt that 


168 


FINE CLAY 


he would have been different. As a child, he 
had practised deceit, coldly, deliberately, to evade 
punishment. The habit had grown upon him. 
He had been perpetually thwarted. She felt an- 
guish for that soul so bent upon its own destruc- 
tion. On his careless triumphant way he had 
sacrificed her also. She wondered in how many 
ways, not yet revealed, he had deceived her. 
There was the strange omission of his name of 
Gifford in the signature of his marriage register ; 
there was the absence of any mention of his fa- 
ther’s title. Perhaps he had not intended that 
the marriage should be a legal one. Her face 
flamed at the thought of her own acquiescence. 
All through she had scarcely shown any resistance 
at all. His very plausibility had disarmed her. 
Now she had come back alone, a broken, disillu- 
sioned woman — so poor, who had once been so 
rich. And there was the future to be faced with 
its possible harvest of terror and shame. . . . 

She could not yet see clearly; it was all too 
close to her. It was difficult to realize that their 
happiness had come to such an abrupt and, for 
her, tragic ending; and that all these latent and 
intricate energies of emotion and joy, which his 
love had awakened and vitalized, must needs fall 
back into their ancient dormant quiescence, seek- 
ing not life, but atrophy. 

“Tibby,” said Major Pascoe a day or two later, 
“I don’t think England agreed with Yolande. 
She is looking very white and peaky. I think 
she ought to see a doctor.” 

Miss Tibbit compressed her lips firmly. It 


FINE CLAY 169 

gave her the prim governess look which age had 
rather softened. 

“I have noticed a change, Major Pascoe,” she 
said; “but it began before she went to England. 
I believe it has something to do with that young 
Mr. Lumleigh she met in the summer.” 

“Lumleigh? Who’s he? Never knew any- 
one of the name! Boulogne man?” 

“No, but he was here studying French in the 
summer. She used to meet him at the Mar- 
quise’s. And he was always hanging about. 
After he went away I noticed that she seemed 
dull . . . and hipped.” . . . 

She had not meant to make mischief; her 
speech was the result of her own complete igno- 
rance. She was genuinely afraid that Yolande 
was fretting for Mr. Lumleigh. 


CHAPTER XVI 


M iss Tibbit had unwittingly, but neverthe- 
less extremely irretrievably, put the “fat 
in the fire” by those chance words of anxiety to 
her employer. Yolande, blaming her bitterly at 
first, learned to be grateful to her for breaking 
down the barriers and precipitating the inevitable 
confession. 

She was sitting alone with her father one morn- 
ing, a few days later. She had a book in her 
hand, but she was not reading. Her eyes 
watched idly the familiar busy scene on the quay 
below, the silvery piles of fish, the men in their 
brown jerseys, the women black-garbed with 
their stiff linen caps, the careful slow approach 
of a fishing-boat with its heavy red weather- 
beaten sail. . . . 

Major Pascoe was also ostensibly reading, but 
his eyes remained fixed on the large headlines of 
the New York Herald , which so far had conveyed 
nothing to a brain entirely preoccupied with a 
vague anxiety concerning his daughter. 

Putting down the paper, he filled and lit his 
pipe with great deliberation, performing the task 
rather more slowly than usual. This accom- 
plished, he rose to his feet. He had been up 
late the night before, unable to tear himself away 
when his luck was so extraordinarily good, and 
he did not feel quite braced to the task of cross- 


FINE CLAY 


171 


questioning Yolande. It had, however, been 
postponed for several days, and during that time 
Yolande had looked even more tired and ill than 
when she first returned from England. He did 
not like, therefore, to defer the evil moment. 
For he had a kind of dim presentiment that it 
would certainly prove an evil moment. He was 
now strongly convinced that while in England she 
had been greatly controlled by some quite new in- 
fluence. It betrayed itself a little in her man- 
ner, in new ways and expressions, and also in her 
face, which bore across its still curious immaturity 
the evidence of some vital experience, which could 
not have been altogether a happy one. 

“My dear Yolande,” he began cautiously, ‘you 
don’t look as if you had slept very well last night. 
And if you go on getting thinner you will cer- 
tainly have to see a doctor. Don’t you feel well, 
my dear child?” 

It was a distinct opening, but she was too start- 
led to avail herself of it. She answered, trying 
to speak lightly: 

“Oh, I’m quite well, papa. I don’t think I’m 
any thinner.” 

“Tibby tells me that you do not feel able to 
get up and go to an early Mass with her. You 
used always to do that. It is nothing to do with 
your religion . . . that is troubling you?” He 
said this almost diffidently. 

“Oh, no.” . . . 

“Now about that young Mr. Lumleigh who 
was here in the summer. . . . He was not a 
Catholic, I suppose?” 

At the mention of Gifford’s name Yolande’s 


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FINE CLAY 


face, wide-eyed and terror-stricken, had the look 
of one expecting a blow. She was white to the 
lips ; her heart beat violently ; she could feel her- 
self trembling. What did he know ? 

“No — he was not a Catholic,” she said in a low 
tone. 

“You haven’t refused him on that account?” 
asked her father, and now she saw quite clearly 
that something — some one — had definitely 
aroused his suspicious anxiety. 

“No,” she said again. 

She felt more than ever that she could not al- 
low herself to be “rushed” into an explanation; 
she must choose her own day and hour. 

“It is not true, then,” he pursued, with an odd 
relentlessness, “what Tibby suggests — that 
you’re fretting about him?” 

Yolande gave a low cry and hid her face in 
her hands. It was his intention then to rush the 
position, to elicit explanation. Her courage 
gave way; her nervous tension expressed itself 
in that sudden cry; in that pitiful effort to hide 
her face from his now anxious and astonished 
eyes. . . . 

“Why, my darling, what’s the matter? You 
don’t mean to tell me that there was anything be- 
tween you and this young chap?” 

Still she did not answer. Major Pascoe be- 
came alarmed, and, like many people, anxiety 
rendered him angry. Rather roughly he pulled 
her hands away from her face and turned it up 
to his own. 

“You must tell me, please, Yolande,” he said. 

“I ... I can’t tell you, papa,” she said, 


FINE CLAY 


173 

trembling. “I can’t tell you” . . . she said 
again. 

“Yolande,” he said, “I daresay many people 
would think I have neglected you. It is true 
that I have not been ... all that a father should 
be. But you are my daughter and now you must 
obey me.” . . . 

What would he say when he knew the truth? 
She had expected him to be grieved beyond 
words; now she felt afraid of him, of his grow- 
ing anger, of the almost fierce look in his blue 
eyes that had become suddenly hard. 

“I married Gifford Lumleigh when I was in 
England,” she said at last with a desperate ef- 
fort. “I did not tell you because he insisted 
upon keeping it a secret. He said his father 
would not approve of it, and would refuse to 
give him any money. We went first to Devon- 
shire. And when we had been married a few 
weeks we went to Brighton — and there we met a 
woman who was his wife. He had divorced her. 
He told me then that our marriage was a legal 
one in England . . . but for me I knew that 
it was no marriage at all. I left him that very 
day — that very hour. I came back here. I 
meant to tell you . . . but I was afraid. I am 
sorry that I deceived you and Tibby . . . but 
I have been heavily punished . . . you must for- 
give me.” 

She was on her knees now, clasping his hands 
in her own. He gently raised her. All his 
anger was gone. He could only remember of 
her that at the crucial moment, when she had had 
to make her final decision, she had without hesi- 


174 


FINE CLAY 


tation chosen the path which alone was open to 
her as a Catholic; that no considerations of hap- 
piness had seemed of any account; that she had 
deliberately flung from her the gifts of love, 
spurning them, indeed, for the faith which long 
ago he had promised Veronica should be hers. 
He was perplexed and infinitely bewildered by 
the results of the education he had given her. 
Just when it seemed to have failed it had borne 
sudden, if to her bitter, fruit. And because he 
did not share her faith the anguish of her position 
pierced him like a sword. 

“And you told no one?” he said. “Not even 
Madame de Solignac?” 

“No,” she said, “I have told no one. But I 
did once say to Madame De Solignac that we 
were engaged.” . . . 

Major Pascoe turned away, and for a moment 
stood by the window. There had been a shower 
of rain, and the quay was dark and shining with 
moisture. Low gray clouds drifted sullenly 
across the face of the sky. 

“You are his wife according to English law,” 
he said. “You have the right to bear his name.” 

“I will never use his name!” she broke out 
passionately. “If what I have been taught all 
my life is true I am not his wife at all. I am 
very wicked . . . but I did not mean to be 
wicked. It was wrong to deceive you — and I 
knew I was doing that. But Gifford said I 
owed loyalty to him as well.” . . . 

“I must consult Prendergast,” murmured the 
Major. Prendergast was the family lawyer 
and a very old and valued friend. “Yes— I wish 


FINE CLAY 


175 


you hadn’t deceived me, Yolande. It’s an ugly 
story, and so far you were to blame. I ought 
to have looked after you better. I’m to blame, 
too.” 

“But now I have told you,” she said, “I prom- 
ise never to deceive you again. . . . Only I want 
to go away from here. I’m afraid that Gifford 
will come, and try and persuade me to go back 
to him. I want to go far away with you and 
Tibby, and forget him!” 

“Perhaps I ought to write to his father,” he 
said presently. “Do you know where he lives?” 

“His father is Lord Strode, and lives at a 
house called Merrywood Place in Sussex. But 
it would do no good to write to him. He knows 
nothing about me. Gifford has told him noth- 
ing. I only want to go away as soon as possible. 
Somewhere where he can never find me!” 

“Of course we will go, my dear,” he said 
gently; “but what made you do such a mad 
thing?” 

“I loved him,” she said desperately — “I loved 
him very much. And he loved me.” . . . She 
broke into passionate weeping. 

He looked at her compassionately. So it had 
not been an easy sacrifice, this sudden severance, 
this abrupt and final leave-taking. Again he 
felt, through all his pity and sorrow, a kind of 
triumph at her gallant little victory the first time 
she had ever been called upon to put her faith 
to the test. This was, indeed, Veronica’s daugh- 
ter. Yet he had never felt that Yolande was so 
passionately attached to her faith as her mother 
had been. 


176 


FINE CLAY 


“You are very young,” he said; “but your 
mother was even younger when I married 
her.” . . . 

Yolande looked him full in the face, and her 
eyes were strange and her voice was hard and 
bitter. 

“Perhaps I shall die as she did” . . . she said. 

“Oh! Yolande — you can’t mean that!” he said. 
Surely there could not be this final cruel compli- 
cation to add to the sum of her misery? 

He looked at her aghast. 

“Yes,” she said, “and I shall pray to die.” . • . 
She moved past him and went slowly and list- 
lessly from the room. She had told him every- 
thing now — all that she knew, all that she 
feared. . . . 

During the days that followed there came no 
news of Gifford, and the few weeks she had spent 
in England faded a little from Yolande’s mind, 
and became more and more like some beautiful, 
but terrible dream. She was perhaps too young 
to realize fully her own disastrous position. She 
craved only for obscurity and peace, and seemed 
to have but one desire — to leave Boulogne as soon 
as possible. The gentle, motherly, silent atten- 
tions of Tibby and the tender and protective care 
of her father soothed her almost insensibly into a 
new calmness. It seemed as if these two figures 
were tacitly employed upon sheltering her from 
any recurrence of the storms and deep waters 
through which she had passed. Her love for 
Gifford underwent, in the first days of their 


FINE CLAY 


177 


separation, a fierce, if subtle change. She did 
not wish to see him again. She was ashamed 
now of the love which had so weakened her will, 
and compelled her submission. She felt that 
even if he were free to marry her she could never 
return to him. She could never forget how he 
had deceived and duped her. It would be im- 
possible to trust him. And then there would 
suddenly supervene the hunger for that very 
love; for its eager caresses, its ardent, tender 
words, its sweeping away of all loneliness. . . . 

But he made no effort to seek her. She won- 
dered what his next move would be. She was his 
wife, yet not his wife. She was neither bound, 
nor was she legally free. 

In the contemplation of his daughter’s disaster 
Major Pascoe became a changed man. Liter- 
ally, he turned over a new leaf. He seemed to 
have no thought but for Yolande. All that was 
good in him — and there was still a fair measure 
— came to the surface. He assumed command 
of the position, just as in the old days he had as- 
sumed command of those forlorn outposts of 
Empire, and held them against fierce attack and 
obdurate onslaught. 

“We must leave Boulogne, Tibby,” he said 
loftily. 

“Yes,” said Miss Tibbit, looking up from her 
knitting. 

“The question is where shall we go?” 

He had turned over the names of many places 
in his mind. Paris? — it was too near and he was 
too well-known, had too many friends there. 


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Florence? Too many English. Bruges — 
Brussels — always there were too many Eng- 
lish. . . . 

Madame de Solignac, however, put an end to 
the discussion. She came to see him one morn- 
ing when Tibby and Yolande had gone out to- 
gether. She had no great liking for Major Pas- 
coe, and she had sincerely pitied his daughter. 
But she had a special reason for seeking him out. 
She had been told that a mutual friend had seen 
Yolande and Gifford Lumleigh together in 
Brighton at a time when she believed that the 
girl’s visit to friends must have ended, and when, 
indeed, she thought Yolande had long ago re- 
turned to France. 

She wore black for her friend and looked 
slightly more subdued than usual, in spite of her 
extraordinarily vivid coloring. 

“I have come to see you about Yolande,” she 
said. 

“What can you have to say?” he said sadly. 

“You mean she was in my care? But I don’t 
know yet what has happened.” . . . 

“She was in your care,” he said, “and she mar- 
ried a man called Gifford Lumleigh, not knowing 
that he had a divorced wife still alive. She is too 
good a Catholic not to know that for her it wasn’t 
any marriage at all.” . . . 

“A divorced wife!” she exclaimed. “Poor 
child! — how on earth did she find it out?” 

“They ran across her in Brighton, and it seems 
she accosted Lumleigh, and he afterwards admit- 
ted that there had been a marriage.” 

“And then?” . . . 


FINE CLAY 


179 


“She just left him — plant e la!” 

“And came back to you?” 

“Amd came back to me.” 

She was sitting near the window, and in the 
rather dull surroundings she looked singularly 
out of keeping. She always had the finished, 
polished look of a woman who emerges every 
morning from the hands of a capable and compe- 
tent maid. Her little gloved hands lay folded on 
her lap. 

“I hope,” she said at last, “that you don’t 
blame me for the whole thing? I was never in 
Yolande’s confidence, but I thought they were 
engaged, and when she said that his father did 
not approve, and would give them no money, I 
urged her to come and consult you as to whether 
it would be prudent to go on with anything so 
uncertain. I suppose they were married by 
special licence?” 

“On the day after you left town,” subjoined 
Major Pascoe. 

“And what are you going to do about it all?” 

“I’ve written to Prendergast — my lawyer — to 
find out just where she stands. They are bound 
in so far that neither can make another marriage. 
Yolande could no doubt get it annulled in the 
English courts on the ground that she was a 
Catholic, and knew nothing of a former mar- 
riage. But she doesn’t want to do that. She 
dislikes the thought of the publicity, and though 
the man very grossly deceived her she doesn’t 
want to show him up. But even if she did get the 
marriage set aside as invalid” . . . He stopped 
now and regarded her almost defiantly — “it 


180 FINE CLAY 

wouldn’t interfere with the principal point at 
issue.” . . . 

“And that is?” * . . inquired the Marquise, 
feeling extremely uncomfortable. 

“The legitimacy of any child that may be born 
to her!” said Maxim Pascoe. 

Madame de Solignac turned a shade paler. 
“But let us hope” ... she began. 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

“Anyhow, I want to get her away,” he said, 
“as soon as possible. She’s afraid he’ll come and 
she wants to hide from him. That’s her one idea 
— to hide. Aoid I can’t think of any place to go 
to!” 

“Why, there is my little villa at San Giuliano,” 
she said, “on the Italian coast not far from Porto 
Fino. You’d better go there — you can be as 
quiet as you wish. And the sunshine will do Yo- 
lande good. It won’t be too hot in September. 
You could travel quietly through Switzerland 
first. And you can have the villa for as long 
as you like. I’ve not set foot in it for five years, 
though I have let it most winters. Won’t you do 
this — if you will accept it from me?” 

“It is very kind of you,” he said. “I’ll talk it 
over with Tibby. We must fix on something 
soon.” 

“And about the child,” she hesitated. “I 
heard something about the Strodes when I was 
in England, and it seems that the estates can 
never pass into Catholic hands. This disability 
goes back to the will of the first Lord Strode. 
Only Gifford is fortunately a younger son. Still 


FINE CLAY 


181 


it makes his marriage an even more rash one than 
it seemed at first, and this perhaps supplies some 
motive for his determined secrecy/’ 

“And it makes him seem more of a scoundrel 
than one could have imagined,” said the Major 
grimly. “And I am perfectly certain he never 
mentioned such a thing to Yolande at all. He 
kept her absolutely in the dark. My little girl is 
only just eighteen — and her life is ruined!” He 
spoke passionately and his blue eyes flamed. “If 
he ever shows his face here I shall shoot him I” 

“Where were they married?” she asked. 

“In some small Catholic church in an out-of- 
the-way quarter of London, where I suppose he 
had a temporary domicile. What did he tell the 
priest, I wonder? How did he get him to con- 
sent?” 

“And you won’t try, in spite of Yolande, to 
annul the marriage — as far as its legality in Eng- 
land is concerned?” she said. 

“She’s dead against that at present. And, in 
any case, I can’t see how that would affect the 
future. What you tell me makes it even more 
complicated. Supposing Gifford should ever 
succeed to the title — and if the worst comes to the 
worst and there is a child born — don’t you sup- 
pose he will use every effort to secure the control 
of his heir, so that it shall not be brought up in 
its mother’s faith?” 

The Major’s mind had during the past week 
regained a good deal of its natural clearness. 
He could review a situation and all its attendant 
possibilities with his old strategical eye. And he 


182 


FINE CLAY 


now saw all the devious, difficult mazes into which 
Yolande’s single false step might hereafter lead 
her. 

“The only thing that’s pleased me,” he re- 
sumed, after a pause, in which Madame de Solig- 
nac offered no remark, “was Yolande’s complete 
and instantaneous rupture with him the moment 
she found him out. She doesn’t seem to have had 
one single instant of indecision or doubt. She 
saw at once it wasn’t — from the point of view of a 
Catholic — a marriage at all. I’m not a Catholic 
myself, but I have at least seen that she was 
brought up as one. Sometimes I’ve thought she 
was a little indifferent to her religion, especially 
the last year or two; she was pious enough as a 
little child. But now I see that she’s got it in her 
— very strongly — and she chose it before any- 
thing else in the world. For she did love this 
man. Whether she loves him still in spite of all 
things it’s a little difficult to judge.” 

“Oh, yes — she’d do that,” said the Marquise 
musingly; “leave him, I mean. To any girl 
brought up as a Catholic it would be a shock. 
Some people wouldn’t be good enough or strong 
enough to make the separation permanent. But 
Yolande has a great deal of character, and she 
was very headstrong about the whole thing. I’m 
only sorry it should have happened while she was 
in my care. But I daresay she told you that my 
friend was dying — and I went away with her and 
stayed with her until she died?” 

“Yes — she told me about that. But the affair 
began at the Villa Falaise last June, and at the 
Chalet des Pins they saw a great deal of each 


FINE CLAY 


183 


other. Moonlight walks on the dunes and in the 
pine-woods.” He shrugged his shoulders. 
“And he made a point of her keeping silence from 
the very first. She was too young and inexperi- 
enced to recognize that for a danger signal. He 
was determined to marry her, and I suppose he 
thought he could ‘square the Pope.’ Oh, the ex- 
pression isn’t my own! There are lots of igno- 
ramuses who believe the Pope can annul even a 
Protestant marriage, and I daresay he thought 
he could get his first marriage annulled in this 
way. What must have surprised him is that a 
girl, who could go all that way in deceiving her 
father and keeping him in the dark, would stick 
by her religion when it came to the point!” 

“But now about the future,” she said; “will you 
think over my suggestion? I should be so glad 
for you to have my villa at San Giuliano for as 
long as you both like. It is very quiet and very 
charming, and I want to make some amends to 
Yolande. . . . She is very dear to me. Major 
Pascoe. And I hope some day she will find real 
happiness.” . . . 

“It is very kind of you,” he said; “I’ll talk to 
her about it. We haven’t been able to think of 
any place at present. If Gifford Lumleigh 
means to find her he’s sure to scour the gaming- 
tables of Europe for me. And I need not tell 
you that for her sake I shall never be seen at one 
of them again!” 

“I think you are quite right,” she said. “And 
for the present it will be wise to hide. You’ll go 
soon, I suppose?” 

“I’ve given them their marching orders,” he 


184 


FINE CLAY 


said; “Tibby will come with us, of course. We 
can’t let poor old Tibby go!” 

The Marquise rose from her seat. 

“And if you do decide to go there,” she said, 
“I hope I may sometimes be allowed to come and 
see Yolande. You may trust me to keep the 
secret of her whereabouts.” 

Major Pascoe escorted her downstairs to the 
door. In view of his heart-attacks he felt re- 
lieved to think that Yolande should have such a 
firm and kind friend. 

After a long consultation they all three decided 
unanimously in favor of the villa at San Giuliano. 


CHAPTER XVII 


T he village of San Giuliano is a singularly 
beautiful though unfrequented one, lying 
amid the chestnut woods and olive-groves of the 
Riviera di Levante, beyond the city of Genoa. 
The blue bay, calm and colored like a turquoise 
in those beautiful September days, was rimmed 
by the outlines of gracious hills ending in the 
great promontory of Porto Fino thrust like a 
long violet arm into the sea. 

There were very few English in the place, and 
these were happily of the “bird-of-passage” 
order. There was nothing in San Giuliano to de- 
tain them beyond a single night. The arrival of 
the little party from Boulogne attracted no at- 
tention at all. The Villa Viola (called thus after 
the Marquise by her late adoring husband), was 
in a very sequestered part, on a steep hill above 
the village and overlooking the bay. Its quiet- 
ness and peace from the first soothed Yolande. 
The journey had been made in slow stages, and 
for a few weeks they had sojourned at a remote 
village in the higher Alps before passing down 
into Italy. By the time they arrived at San 
Giuliano September was almost at an end. 

A few of the larger villas belonged to rich 
Italians or Russians, but at present these houses 
were closed. Later, perhaps, their migratorv 

185 


186 


FINE CLAY 


owners might pass some of the winter months 
there. But in any case none of the little group 
at the Villa Viola had any desire for their so- 
ciety. Yolande, indeed, never went beyond the 
garden and olive-grove which belonged to the 
villa, except on Sundays, when she accompanied 
Tibby to Mass in the little church whose pointed 
campanile stood up white and sharp above a grove 
of date-palms and cypresses. 

The Marquise paid them a visit early in J anu- 
ary on her way to Rome. She promised to re- 
turn, and did so about the middle of April. 
Major Pascoe, who was now definitely alarmed 
about Yolande’s increasing weakness, entreated 
her to remain. The Marquise took command of 
the situation. Even Tibby’s claims were set 
aside. She insisted upon sending for an eminent 
specialist from Milan, and at the end of the 
month Yolande’s child — a little boy — was born. 

Yolande had ceased to have that ardent desire 
for death which had at first possessed her. In- 
stead, there had come to her an eager desire to 
live to see her child. But there had not been, 
at one time, much hope of saving the mother’s life. 
Her weakness was extreme, and she received 
quite consciously the Last Sacraments. In the 
end her youth and her strong vitality conquered. 
She was to live — to be mother and father in one 
— to her fatherless child. 

She was glad during those days of weak con- 
valescence to have the companionship of Viola de 
Solignac, and, indeed, without her she would 
have fared badly. Tibby was prostrated by anx- 
iety and had retired to bed a few days after little 


FINE CLAY 


187 


Ambrose arrived in the world, and Major Pascoe 
had broken all his good resolutions by drowning 
suspense with the only means he considered to be 
absolutely reliable. To do him justice, it was his 
first real break-down since they had left Bou- 
logne, and the knowledge of it was rigorously 
kept from Yolande. 

Ambrose Lumleigh — to give him the name to 
which he was at any rate legally entitled — was a 
small, delicate infant, with large dark eyes that 
were almost black, and dark silken hair that 
curled in little rings over his head just as Yo- 
lande’s had done when she was a baby. Indeed, 
his resemblance to his mother was then, as al- 
ways, quite extraordinary, though he never pos- 
sessed more than a mere shadow and sug- 
gestion of her beauty. But his coming restored 
to Yolande the full bloom of her arresting loveli- 
ness, just as it seemed to give her back a happi- 
ness that appeared to have been destroyed for- 
ever. After the first few weeks she and Tibby 
looked after him without any other nurse. She 
felt incapable of yielding the charge of anything 
so precious to another woman, however experi- 
enced. Major Pascoe protested a little at first, 
fearing that she was scarcely strong enough for 
the task. But she overruled all his objections. 

The Marquise stayed long enough to be pres- 
ent at the child’s baptism, for Yolande had in- 
vited her to be his godmother. He was given the 
names of Ambrose Maxim Gifford. It was with 
some hesitation that she had thus added his 
father’s name. 

Major Pascoe became once more a reformed 


188 


FINE CLAY 


character. He adored his little grandson, and 
took, perhaps, a livelier interest in him than he 
had done in Yolande at that stage of her career. 
His love for his daughter had a new quality; per- 
haps he had never quite realized how dear she was 
until he had found himself face to face with the 
terrible possibility of losing her. The little 
family circle, over which Tibby watched so 
proudly, was a curiously happy and united one. 

Tibby ’s role of governess had fallen from her 
immediately after Yolande’s return from Eng- 
land to Boulogne in the summer. Even before 
she had learned her story she had recognized that 
their old relations could never be resumed. Yo- 
lande was a child no more, and she had passed be- 
yond the range of Tibby’s teaching. Yet there 
was never any question that Miss Tibbit should 
seek another sphere of activity. She was part of 
the household. She became a kind of dame de 
compagnie , receiving no salary as her income had 
recently been increased by a tiny legacy which 
rendered her independent. Her footing was 
therefore quite unofficial, and she was the trusted 
friend and counselor, an enduring witness to 
Major Pascoe’s flair. Now she willingly added 
to these parts the duties of a devoted under- 
nurse. 

They stayed there all through the summer. 
The weeks passed very uneventfully in the little 
white villa peeping out from the soft silver-gray- 
ness of the olive-woods. Yolande was immensely 
preoccupied with Ambrose, and it must be said 
that he represented the hub of that little universe. 
His mother adored him, and he seemed to fill the 


FINE CLAY 


189 


place Gifford had left empty in her heart. She 
never prayed now, as she had done at first, that 
Gifford might return to her free. She was even 
afraid that he might come thus, and claim her and 
her boy, who was now so exclusively her own. 
She felt that she could not share him with any 
one living. The events of last year had faded a 
little from her mind. Even Gifford’s face had 
grown less passionately distinct. She did not 
wish to return to the enslaving demands of that 
old love that had once so held her. 

Chance, however — that most fatal of all des- 
tiny’s instruments — brought her face to face with 
Gifford one afternoon when she had strolled 
down alone to the little port that lay below the 
village. She had not noticed the arrival of an 
English yacht in the harbor, for she had grown 
careless of late about watching for such possible 
sources of danger. She was walking quietly 
along the bright sunny street, whose shady ar- 
cades afforded shelter for the lace-makers who 
sat there so diligently at their task, when above 
the sound of their ceaseless chatter an English 
voice accosted her, asking the way. 

She turned, and came face to face with Gifford 
Lumleigh. Recognition was immediate, to 
pass him was impossible. Until she turned he 
had not had the slightest idea whom he was ad- 
dressing. He was seeking her, it is true, but no 
longer so diligently as he had once done. He 
was now on a cruise with some friends, and had 
had no thought of meeting her in the tiny, unfre- 
quented village of San Giuliano. 

“Yolande” ... he said. 


190 


FINE CLAY 


He looked extremely young — almost absurdly 
so — in his white yachting suit and straw hat. 
Younger almost than he had done on that day — 
now rather more than a year ago — when Yolande 
had left him. 

She did not touch the hand that he had now 
offered her, and he let it drop limply at his side. 

“My dear Yolande — you will speak to me, 
won’t you?” he said, and there was the old, caress- 
ing, entreating note in his voice which once had 
lured her to her doom, but which she now felt 
had no power to move her. Yet in her heart the 
old love struggled and fluttered, as if his very 
presence were galvanizing it into an unwilling 
life. . . . 

“Yolande — have you forgotten me, darling?” 
he said, and a sob sounded in his voice. It 
pierced her heart like a sword. 

“Of course I haven’t forgotten you, Gifford. 
But why have you come?” 

She spoke with a coldness that seemed immedi- 
ately to check his rising emotion. 

“I . . . I didn’t know you were here” ... he 
said miserably. 

“I am here with my father and Miss Tibbit.” 
She did not allude to her as Tibby, the touch of 
formality was not lost upon him. 

She had not moved since his approach, but now 
she turned away from the harbor, and directed 
her steps towards the white, unshaded road that 
led steeply through the village and past the 
church towards the Villa Viola. Gifford fol- 
lowed her. 


FINE CLAY 


191 


At the top of the street she stopped. 

“Please do not come any further,” she said; “I 
am going home. Do not come.” 

She wore the look of one who has dived into 
deep waters, learning their secrets, their cold, un- 
imagined perils, and whose emergence therefrom 
has bestowed a new and accurate vision to bear 
upon the things of earth. Those dark strange 
eyes of hers — with the dusky mysterious radiance 
of deep forest pools, remote and cold ! . . . 

But he knew then that this single glimpse of 
her had sufficed to span the chasm between their 
abrupt separation and their sudden meeting. 
All of that time between became to him a vague 
gray blur of emptiness and silence, a measureless 
void, colorless, formless, as shadowless as it was 
also without light. It seemed to him also as if, 
during that time — which already was growing re- 
mote and inapparent — every emotion had been 
suspended, so that all his vitality and energy had 
been concentrated only upon the achievement of 
that gigantic task of waiting. . . . 

Waiting to see her — to find her — and she was 
telling him in that cold voice of hers to go away — 
to leave what he had just found. . . . The tears 
rushed to his eyes. 

“Don’t send me away, Yolande ... I am 
free!” he said; “that woman you saw is dead. I 
am free,” he repeated. 

Free ? The word smote her like a blow. 

“She died last March,” he went on, “and ever 
since I have been trying to trace you — to find 
you. I inquired everywhere — at Boulogne — in 


192 


FINE CLAY 


Paris — at Monte Carlo. . . . I could get no news 
anywhere !” His gray eyes flashed like smolder- 
ing fires through the black lashes. 

“You cannot come with me,” she said gravely; 
“in the first place my father would not receive 
you. And . . . there is no place in my life for 
you now. You must understand that. I have 
other things to consider. My father and my 
. . . my son, Gifford.” 

“Your son , Yolande?” he said. “Your son?” 

“He was born here — last April,” she said. 

She remembered one mad dream she had had — 
of putting into Gifford’s arms the child of their 
love. 

“My son,” he muttered, “my son.” . . . The 
possibility of fatherhood had never entered his 
head and the news came with a bewildering vio- 
lence. “You’re not going to keep me from seeing 
him, Yolande? I ... I must see him.” . . . 

Already his voice, his words, stirred within her 
the old emotion, the old tenderness, which she had 
believed dead. 

She said more gently: 

“I will tell papa and Miss Tibbit that you are 
here. If they permit it I will write and ask you 
to come. But you must not come now.” 

“I must see my son,” he said doggedly. 

She moved as if to leave him. 

“Yolande” ... he said entreatingly. “Don’t 
be so hard — don’t be so cruel. You loved me 
once, and I have never ceased loving you since 
those days at Villa Falaise. And I am free to 
marry you my darling, if you still do not believe 


FINE CLAY 


193 


that you are my wife, and have been my wife now 
for a whole year!” 

“I will write,” she said again. “You are stay- 
ing in the hotel? I will send a note there to- 
night. But you must not expect to be allowed 
to come. My father is very angry with 
you.” . . . 

This time she walked slowly away from him, 
and he did not venture to follow her. But he 
watched her, gazing hungrily until she had dis- 
appeared round the corner of the steep and 
crooked street. 

Then he went back to the hotel, and sat alone 
in the loggia overlooking the harbor, dreaming of 
his encounter with Yolande . . . dreaming of his 
little son. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


I t was some time before Yolande was able to 
persuade Major Pascoe to receive Gifford. 
That chance meeting had so completely destroyed 
all their plans of concealment that to Yolande 
it mattered little now whether he came to see 
Ambrose or not. He could, by making inquiries 
at the hotel and elsewhere, have easily elicited all 
the information she had given him. 

And since his wife was dead she had come face 
to face with an entirely new problem. Ambrose 
was his son; had, indeed, every right to his 
father’s name; she could hardly deny him access 
to him at present. The future must be discussed, 
and discussed temperately and fairly. Major 
Pascoe refused at first to see any necessity for 
this. He hated violently this man whom he had 
never seen. He would have denied him any right 
to speak to Yolande. He would have closed his 
doors to him. He said all this with a new and 
savage anger. This man had no claim upon her. 
He had forfeited all claim. He had behaved like 
a scoundrel. Was Yolande thinking of marry- 
ing him that she wished to invite him to the Villa 
Viola? 

“Papa,” she said at last, “please don’t be angry 
about it. It is true that I had given up thinking 
of Gifford. . . . Do not make it so difficult for 
me to tell you.” . . . She laid her h^nd on his 

194 


FINE CLAY 


195 


arm. “I did love him — last year” . . . she said, 
with a kind of desperation. “I can’t send him 
away without a word!” 

“Haven’t you any pride?” he said angrily. 

“I must think of Ambrose” . . . she said. 

“You are deceiving yourself, Yolande,” he 
said; “you have allowed yourself to come under 
this man’s evil influence again. I shall do all I 
can to stop your remarriage. And if you are 
wise you will refrain from legalizing the tie. 
Your son will be far better brought up away from 
such a father! What did he care when you were 
down at death’s door last April?” He flung the 
words at her with violence. 

“Papa — I want you to see Gifford and hear 
what he has to say. Then, if you think it is still 
unwise and imprudent, I will do as you wish.” 

“He has spoken then? He does want you to 
go back to him?” 

She lowered her eyes. 

“He seemed very unhappy,” she said. “I am 
obliged to believe that he does care for me very 
much.” She said it so simply that even in his 
anger he could not forbear to smile at her 
naivete. 

“If he comes here, Yolande, I shall tell him ex- 
actly what I think of him!” 

“Oh, but you mustn’t do that ! It would make 
me so miserable. I want you to be kind to him, 
because he has suffered very much.” 

“And he deserves to have suffered!” He felt 
that he could not give Yolande up to this man 
without making a strong effort to retain her. 
Selfishly, perhaps, he had settled down to this 


196 


FINE CLAY 


new and tranquil existence, never imagining that 
it did not supply all the demands of a beautiful 
woman hardly yet twenty years old. Was Gif- 
ford’s coming to be allowed to destroy all his vi- 
sions of a protracted peace? To lose Yolande 
and Ambrose now would be in the nature of a 
cataclysm, and he could not envisage such an un- 
toward event. 

In the end a note was written and sent down to 
the hotel, asking Gifford to come on the following 
morning. Nothing would induce Major Pascoe 
to invite him to luncheon — he was to receive no 
hospitality. The visit was to be a strictly busi- 
ness one. Eleven o’clock was the hour fixed 
upon, and at twelve Major Pascoe was deter- 
mined that Gifford should be politely shown to 
the door. 

Both men disliked all that they had known and 
heard of each other. To neither did the prospect 
of a meeting hold out anything but a grim duty 
to be performed. It was for Yolande’s sake that 
they thus met. Gifford’s face was set and stern 
when he entered the big spacious empty room, 
where Maxim Pascoe, according to immemorial 
custom, smoked and read his New York Herald . 
Yolande was sewing, her chair drawn up close to 
the opened window, beyond which was the loggia 
hung with trailing vines. The day was very 
warm, and she wore a white thin dress. She 
looked to him so poignantly like the girl who had 
driven with him demurely to church on her wed- 
ding-day. . . . 

They both rose as he came in. Yolande intro- 
duced them. She said simply: 


FINE CLAY 


197 


“Papa, this is Gifford.” 

Major Pascoe had hated Gifford with a violent 
hatred ; he had thought hard and bitter things of 
him; he had longed to have an opportunity of 
fighting a duel with him — a duel to the death . . . 
but in that first moment of meeting he could not 
but acknowledge that there had been some reason 
for Yolande’s rash marriage, seeing that the 
tempter had worn so splendidly handsome a guise. 

“It is very kind of you to let me come!” he 
said. His eyes were blazing. 

“My daughter persuaded me,” said Maxim 
Pascoe briefly. “I have always said that you 
should never enter my house. But she tells me 
that changes have occurred in your position, and 
that you wished to discuss the matter. Will you 
sit down?” 

He was changed for the better since the Bou- 
logne days when Gifford had regretfully recog- 
nized the impossibility of introducing him at 
Merrywood. He held himself more erect; his 
appearance was extremely neat; his eye was clear; 
there was a pride and dignity about him which 
had been so lamentably lacking in the old days. 

“I will come back presently,” said Yolande. 
She left the room without bestowing another 
glance upon Gifford. She could not stay and 
hear what they had to say to each other, these two 
men both so grimly bent upon the possession of 
her. She would have to choose between them. 
All last night she had lain awake, and the music 
of Gifford’s remembered voice was in her ears; 
his love seemed to enfold her; she knew how hard 
it had been to put the thought of him out of her 


198 FINE CLAY 

heart; to kill the love that had been so shameful 
a thing. . . . 

“I came to see the child,” said Gifford, stand- 
ing there and taking no notice of the proffered 
chair. He felt that he could meet his foe better 
standing up. “I wanted to see him so much — our 
son.” . . . 

“She nearly died when he was born,” said 
Maxim grimly, and he noticed that Gifford gave 
a quick little shudder as he heard the words. “I 
believe she wished to die. But she was just learn- 
ing to be happy again — here with her baby. I 
did all I could to shield and protect her. No one 
knows her shameful story except the Marquise de 
Solignac.” 

Gifford broke in passionately : 

“Her story isn’t shameful! She is my wife, 
and Ambrose is our son ! You are not a Catholic, 
and you know perfectly well that the only objec- 
tion to our marriage is an ecclesiastical one. It 
was on those grounds she left me and hid from 
me. I tried to find her.” . . . 

“I am not a Catholic,” said Maxim, “but my 
wife was, and I faithfully promised to bring Yo- 
lande up as one. You deceived her and the priest 
too — representing yourself as an unmarried man. 
You deceived her also as to the reason of your 
wish to keep the marriage secret. I know that 
no Catholic can succeed to your property, and 
that you would not dare take a Catholic wife to 
your home. You married her under false pre- 
tenses . . . and now you come and talk of taking 
her away!” 

“She’s my wife and I love her, Major Pascoe,” 


FINE CLAY 199 

said Gifford, “and the boy’s mine. Even if you 
annul the marriage ” 

“You cannot annul what was never a mar- 
riage!” said Maxim warmly. 

“In England it is a legal marriage and Am- 
brose is my legitimate son! However much you 
may annul the legal tie, you cannot deprive me of 
my son. He is mine — I can claim him!” 
Through the black lashes his eyes were hard and 
bright as steel. “I’ve got that hold over Yo- 
lande. But I’ve got another hold over her which 
is more enduring. She loved me when she mar- 
ried me, and she loves me still. No one shall keep 
us apart !” His mind went back to those days in 
Devonshire last year; he was back on the moor- 
land with her all through that warm and breath- 
less July night, with the stars shining overhead 
and Yolande lying asleep, her head pillowed upon 
his arm. And when she had awakened the dawn 
was already coming towards them out of the east 
like a thin white flame. . . . Their happiness had 
been perfect while it lasted, and he could not be- 
lieve that for a single moment she had ceased to 
love him. 

“I love her,” he said stubbornly; “you can’t 
keep her from me. I am free now. I have 
work, and am independent of my father. I am 
a younger son, and there is no chance of my in- 
heriting. She can bring up her child in her own 
religion if she wishes to. I am prepared to ac- 
cept any conditions!” 

It was as if he were reading, by some subtle 
process of thought-transference, the misgivings 
that were strongly agitating Maxim’s mind. 


200 


FINE CLAY 


“It is for her to choose,” said Major Pascoe; 
“I cannot prevent her from marrying you if she 
wishes it. God knows I would never try and 
keep her from her happiness. But you — ” he 
looked at Gifford with smoldering contempt, as if 
he had been a small and unclean creeping thing 
of the earth — “you deceived her — you lied to her. 
You dragged her down into the dust, making her 
go through a ceremony which you knew quite well 
wasn’t for her a marriage at all. F or her it was a 
sacrilege, and she had no choice but to leave you. 
She came back to me ... it was a nice story for 
a father to hear! She wasn’t your wife, and she 
was going to bear your child. . . . Who has 
sheltered — who has protected her all these 
months ? Who was near her when she went down 
almost to the gate of death? Not you — you were 
only the man she had trusted, and who had 
brought her so low. How do I know you are 
speaking the truth now? Why have I any reason 
in the world to believe a single word you say?” 

All the bitterness, the anger, the contempt, he 
had felt for Gifford seemed to be concentrated in 
the fury of this speech. Every word went home. 
He had no wish to spare him. Rather he desired 
to avenge Yolande for all the injuries she had 
suffered at this man’s hands. 

“The laws of her Church are nothing to me,” 
said Gifford. “Of course, I knew that a young 
girl — a very young girl like Yolande — would in 
any case shrink from marrying a man who had 
divorced his wife. I was aware that such a mar- 
riage would probably meet with your disap- 
proval. And, as I tell you, my father would 


FINE CLAY 


201 


have objected on his side to my marrying a 
Catholic. Oh, I admit that I must seem to you 
unscrupulous . . . but I loved her. That is my 
only excuse. She was so beautiful, and I was 
afraid of losing her. And now she is more lovely 
than ever . . . and I can’t give her up. I must 
have my wife and my son — and you can believe 
me at least when I say that I will spend my whole 
life in trying to make up to Yolande for all that 
she has gone through this last year!” 

His voice sounded perfectly sincere. Maxim 
Pascoe looked at him with a vague surprise. 
Certainly he knew well how to plead his own 
cause; he was eloquent, eager; he had tempera- 
ment. Yet with such fair words also he must 
have lured Yolande into a secret marriage; with 
such ardent eloquence he must have taught her to 
love him. With one at once so suave and so im- 
perious Yolande must have been as a little trust- 
ing child, ready to do his bidding and to believe 
every one of his faithless words. . . . 

“She shall put it in her confessor’s hands,” said 
Major Pascoe more calmly; “that is, if she wishes 
to return to you, which you must give me leave 
to doubt. She’s learnt to be happy here with her 
child and myself. She has had tranquillity and 
peace.” 

“Why should she ask her confessor?” said Gif- 
ford angrily; “why should she consult any one 
but her own heart? If she loves me, nothing can 
keep us apart. And I tell you I know she loves 
me. She may have imagined she was happy 
here when she had persuaded herself that it was 
a sin to love me. But now she knows that I am 


202 


FINE CLAY 


f ree ” He stopped and his eyes kindled. 

“I’m not going to let you or any priest keep her 
from me now!” he said, and there was a hint of 
menace in his tone. 

They faced each other with renewed anger. 
Both faces were stern and determined. But 
while the major was red with rage Gifford was 
pale through all his sunburn, and his eyes were 
aflame. 

At that moment the door opened and Yolande 
came quietly into the room. Their voices raised 
in anger had penetrated to her room, which was 
just overhead, and she thought it would be better 
to rejoin them. In her arms she was carrying 
the sleeping Ambrose. 

She had dressed him in a little white muslin 
frock with pale blue bows; his legs and arms were 
bare — dimpled and rosy. His face was a little 
flushed. Small and rather frail-looking, with 
the loose dark rings of hair clustering over his 
forehead, his likeness to his mother was unmis- 
takable. 

Perhaps he was not quite what Gifford had 
expected him to be. He had imagined a more 
Anglo- S axon-looking child, with rosy cheeks 
and a fair complexion and masses of flaxen hair 
— something, too, rather bigger and fatter. This 
ideal had no doubt been founded upon Robin 
Lumleigh, when he had come on his first visit 
to Merrywood. But Robin had been an unusu- 
ally fine specimen for his age, and w T as what the 
nurses call a bonny child. Poor little Ambrose 
was in no sense bonny, and his rather dark and 
sallow skin deprived him of any claim to baby 


FINE CLAY 


203 


prettiness. Gifford was, however, determined 
to betray nothing of his first chill feeling of dis- 
appointment. Without a word, but with a look 
of tremulous happiness, Yolande put Ambrose 
into his father’s arms and watched as he bent 
down to kiss him. 

“What a stunning little chap!” said Gifford. 
“He’s awfully like you, Yolande.” There was 
a lump in his throat, and in his eyes the unshed 
tears burnt and stung. He cuddled the baby 
close to him. 

“Oh, but you mustn’t smother him!” she said, 
laughing. 

And then she suddenly realized that Gifford’s 
being there made everything seem quite differ- 
ent and complete as it had never been before. 
The little scene was at once so simple and so in- 
timate. She wondered how she could have been 
so long content without him. And as Maxim 
Pascoe watched the little group and saw the look 
of quiet serene happiness shining in his daugh- 
ter’s eyes, he knew that Gifford was going to 
defeat him in the contest. And had he not de- 
feated him all those long months ago, when he 
had secretly stolen Yolande from him and made 
her his wife? 

He felt angry, jealous, altogether out of it. 
They were laughing over their baby like any or- 
dinary young married couple in the first joy of 
the first child. It was as if there had never been 
any tragedy at all. Their heads, bent so low 
over Ambrose who was now awake and staring 
at them with great solemn dark eyes, were close 
together — so close that a strand of Yolande’s 


204 


FINE CLAY 


hair drifted and touched Gifford’s forehead. 
This was altogether too much for Maxim, and 
he left the room abruptly. And when he heard 
the door close Gifford put out his free hand and 
drew Yolande’s face close to his. Their lips met 
in a long embrace. ... 

“So you do love me still?” he said wistfully. 

“Yes, Gifford.” 

“And you’ll come back to me ?” 

“If papa approves,” she said; “I can’t go 
against him. He has been so very good to me. 
But I know he wants me to be happy. I think 
we shall persuade him.” 

“He hates me,” said Gifford morosely; “he 
doesn’t want you to come back. But you are 
my wife, Yolande — and Ambrose is my son. 
There’s no getting away from that.” . . . 

“Yes,” she said; “he is your son, but he is mine 
too.” She bent down and kissed the child’s fore- 
head. Ambrose smiled in the curious and ex- 
perienced way of very small babies. 

“Isn’t he a little small for his age?” he asked. 

“I don’t know. Is he? I’m afraid I don’t 
know much about little babies.” 

“Robin Lumleigh — my cousin’s child — was 
much bigger at that age!” 

“Oh, Gifford — I don’t mind what size he is. 
He is such a darling, isn’t he?” She bent over 
the child, murmuring words of tenderness. “Of 
course he wasn’t very strong at first, but he is 
making good progress.” She took the child in 
her arms and held him almost jealously. 

“For his sake and for mine, Yolande, you will 
come back to me,” said Gifford. “I must have 


FINE CLAY 


205 


you both. I can’t tell you what my life has been 
like without you this last year. It seemed I had 
only touched my happiness to find it melt away. 
And then when I was free ... I could not find 
you. I think God must have taken pity on me 
at last and led me yesterday back to you.” . . . 

“But your father” . . . she said timidly; 
“what will he say? I was told that he would not 
approve of your marrying a Catholic?” 

“What does it matter to him? I’m independ- 
ent of him now. And why should we tell him?” 
He looked at her defiantly. 

“Yes — if we marry you must tell him,” she 
said firmly; “I am not going to have another se- 
cret wedding, Gifford. Your people must know 
— every one must know — that I am your wife. 
I will not have any more secrets, any more lies, 
any more deceit. I must be quite openly your 
wife.” 

“Very well,” he said; “you can make any terms 
you like. It has come to that. I’m prepared 
to do everything you wish.” 

“And I must, of course, bring Ambrose up a 
Catholic,” she said. “He was baptized one. 
And if we should have any other children they 
must also be Catholics.” 

“I suppose he can change his religion when he 
grows up, if he wants to and prefers to have the 
estates?” said Gifford. 

Yolande drew a little away from him. 

“I would rather see my son dead than an apos- 
tate, Gifford,” she said. “You cannot be speak- 
ing seriously. You cannot quite realize what re- 
ligion means to a Catholic.” 


206 


FINE CLAY 


“If a man is bom to fulfil certain duties I be- 
lieve that it is only right that he should not forego 
them. That will be a question for Ambrose him- 
self to decide when he grows up, if there is any 
prospect of his becoming the heir.” 

“He will he too much my son to give it a sec- 
ond thought,” said Yolande. “I can’t give him 
much, but I can give him this. I shall make 
him a good Catholic — I shall teach him that noth- 
ing else matters in all the world !” 

“Well, we needn’t quarrel over that, Yolande. 
You shall bring him up just as you please, if 
that contents you. I’ve learned what life is like 
without you too well to put any hindrance in the 
way.” 

He watched her sitting there with Ambrose in 
her arms. Her face wore such a look of soft 
happiness and tenderness. After all — she had 
not perhaps suffered so much from the separa- 
tion as he had done. She had had her child to 
comfort her. Yes — but what of those long 
months before Ambrose came? What of the 
day when she had gone to find her child, down 
at the very gates of death — returning with him, 
alive and triumphant . . . what of that day of 
supreme peril of which he had been in happy 
ignorance, knowing nothing of how it fared with 
her? 

Everything was beautiful about her, he 
thought, the slim wrists, the long slender hands, 
the grace of her bearing at once girlish and dig- 
nified. She was immensely changed in the past 
year, but her beauty was now of a rarer quality 
than it had ever been. She had passed through 


FINE CLAY 


207 


two crises — one mental and sorrowful, one phys- 
ical and dangerous, yet touched with ineffable 
joys, and those experiences had subtly changed 
her. 

“Only let me stay, Yolande,” he whispered; 
“don’t send me away. We can be married when- 
ever you wish. I suppose your priest will insist 
upon repeating the ceremony. Oh, if only you 
weren’t a Catholic, my darling, you’d win my 
father’s heart and my mother’s too! They 
couldn’t help loving you and Ambrose! But 
they’ll never forgive me for marrying you be- 
cause you are a Catholic, and there’s this dead- 
hand business in the family. We can’t get away 
from that or alter it. We shall be rather poor, 
for I’m not making much yet. You won’t mind 
that? For myself, I mind nothing as long as I 
have you with me — as long as you are my wife!” 

He slipped his arm round her and kissed her. 
They were happy again, as they had been at 
Terre Haute in the Chalet des Pins. 

“Will you let it be soon, Yolande?” he said. 

“Yes, Gifford,” she said; “there are one or 
two things which must be settled, and you must 
come and see papa again ; but I won’t let him be 
angry with you. I know he will wish to consult 
Mr. Prendergast, and I shall also want to con- 
sult my confessor. And you — shall you go 
home first, do you think, and tell Lord Strode? 
You see, there is quite a lot to do, and we must 
have everything quite clear and open. Then we 
might be married here — our wedding can be as 
quiet as you please. And perhaps now you will 
go away and leave me alone a little with papa.” 


208 


FINE CLAY 


She came with him to the door and kissed him 
gravely as he bade her farewell. Then still hold- 
ing Ambrose in her arms she stood in the sunny 
loggia, watching him as he disappeared down the 
path between the avenues of date-palms that 
shone so vividly green against the blue Italian 
sky. 


CHAPTER XIX 


G ifford felt an immense reluctance to go home 
and see his father. He had only once been 
back to Merrywood since his marriage, and then 
he had told them nothing at all about it. His 
welcome had been a very chilly one, and he was 
glad when he could in decency leave. He had 
really only gone on his mother’s account, and be- 
cause it was customary for him to spend Christ- 
mas at home. 

Now there would have to be explanations. 
He felt that Yolande had a perfect right to make 
this hard condition. They would have to go and 
live in London after their marriage, and it would 
be impossible to keep it a secret. Besides, such 
a course would be wholly inadvisable. 

In the meantime he remained at San Giuliano, 
and the friends with whom he was yachting ac- 
cepted his rather lame excuse for leaving them 
without any manifestation of curiosity. 

Major Pascoe did not invite him to stay at the 
villa, and he took up his quarters at the hotel. 
But he visited Yolande every day. 

Major Pascoe had communicated with his law- 
yer, and asked him to come out and see them, if 
possible, in three weeks’ time. It was supposed 
that about that time Gifford would depart for 
England to have the momentous interview with 
his father. Yolande had written to her old di- 


210 


FINE CLAY 


rector, asking his advice and putting the matter 
with much detail before him. So for the time 
being the question of marriage remained in abey- 
ance. 

It was, however, tacitly agreed that the cere- 
mony should take place immediately after Gif- 
ford’s return from Merry wood — probably about 
the end of October. Then after a fortnight’s 
honeymoon they would go and take up their abode 
in London, for by that time Gifford’s holiday 
would be at an end. 

Major Pascoe, finding that Yolande’s happi- 
ness was so definitely involved, made no further 
objection, and even began to discover things to 
like in Gifford. It was too late to think whether 
he were worthy of her. But he was the father 
of her child ; there was the existing legal tie, and, 
if she married at all, it was desirable that she 
should marry him. The affair was already so 
complicated that if anything could be done to 
legalize her position he felt that it ought certainly 
to be done. 

Not that Maxim wished to lose his daughter. 
He would have to shape his own life anew, and he 
dreaded to think that his feet might be led back 
to the old and fatal primrose paths. The villa 
must be given up, and fresh plans made for poor 
Tibby. Then there was the religious disability 
which would prevent any child of Yolande’s from 
succeeding to the estates. Her firmness on this 
point was quite unchangeable. The dead hand of 
Veronica was at least as powerful as the dead 
hand of the first Lord Strode. Not for all the 
world would Veronica’s child allow her own son 


FINE CLAY 


211 


to be brought up in any other faith. Long ago, 
when he had knelt beside his wife’s coffin, Major 
Pascoe had spun a web fine and strong, enmesh- 
ing child and grandchild in spiritual bonds that 
could wot easily be broken. 

Miss 'Tibbit was silent. She was against Gif- 
ford ; against the marriage. The man’s winning 
personality failed to make any appeal to her. 
She did not trust him, and she knew that nothing 
he could do or say would ever make her trust 
him. She felt that he would promise everything 
— anything — to win Yolande. She did not say 
a word of this to any one, but Yolande knew per- 
fectly well that Tibby disliked Gifford even more, 
perhaps, than she had expected to do, and a slight 
atmosphere of constraint sprang up between them 
in consequence. She was sorry for this, as it 
would make it impossible for her to have Tibby 
with her in the future when she was settled in 
England. She would have liked to have had her, 
as she was so devoted to Ambrose, and because 
she herself could hardly imagine a life without 
Tibby. 

Gifford was always received at the villa on a 
formal footing. Even Yolande, after his first 
visit, was colder to him. They sat together and 
talked, and watched Ambrose, but he could not 
induce her to speak much of the future. She 
gave him to understand that nothing could be re- 
garded as settled until after his visit to England. 
There were days when he felt he should go away 
at once, and get the interview with his father over, 
and come back and claim her. The slight un- 
certainty, the hint of hesitation that showed itself 


212 


FINE CLAY 


in her manner to him, perplexed and bewildered 
him. Sometimes they walked together through 
the flaming chestnut woods that were so beautiful 
in these days of early October; sometimes they 
wandered through the little white village and 
watched the lace-makers at work. Gifford was 
much less happy than Yolande during those 
weeks at San Giuliano. The hopeless anomaly 
of his position poisoned his enjoyment of those 
lovely early autumn days. He was in love with 
his own wife, and she denied that she was his 
wife. She was the mother of his child, and she 
refused to recognize his own legal claim. Day 
after day he told himself that he could bear it 
no longer — that he would go away, and leave a 
situation that was galling and humiliating and 
rapidly becoming intolerable. It hurt him inex- 
pressibly to see how simply Yolande accepted 
things as they were. Her coldness, her hesitancy, 
the way she abstained from making any plans for 
the future, made him ask himself again and again 
if she loved him ; if, indeed, she had ever loved him. 
And as long as he stayed at San Giuliano he was 
aware that no definite plans could be made. 
That was all part of the hard conditions she had 
laid down. He shrank from the thought of re- 
vealing this fresh matrimonial imbroglio to his 
father. There would be a scene, of course, fol- 
lowed almost certainly by a definite rupture, per- 
haps, indeed, by a prohibition forbidding him ever 
to show his face at Merry wood again. The pros- 
pect of his father’s cold and bitter anger, his 
mother’s tears, Rex’s barbed ironies — all made 
him inclined to postpone the evil day. And here 


FINE CLAY 


213 


Yolande’s increasing coldness, her lack of en- 
thusiasm about the future, made his presence 
anything but pleasant. She was absorbed in 
Ambrose, and he believed sometimes that the 
child now occupied the first place in her heart. 
Her utter disregard of the boy’s temporal wel- 
fare in regard to the family property was an- 
other source of irritation. She had quite defi- 
nitely told him there could be no concessions on 
this point. And with this knowledge how could 
he even attempt to conciliate his father? A 
ready-made Catholic grandson was perhaps the 
last person in the whole world to be welcome at 
Merry wood. But Gifford’s love for Yolande 
triumphed. He told himself that he loved her 
now far more than he had ever done; he could 
not bring himself to forego one of those bright 
and beautiful Italian days. 

They were walking towards the headland of 
Porto Fino. The day was brilliantly fine and 
the sun very hot. The white road was almost 
as thick with dust as in summer time. The sea 
lying below was calm and sapphire-colored: the 
sky stretched above was singularly clear and 
cloudless. 

“My father has written quite politely to ask 
me to go and stay at Merrywood,” he said. The 
letter had come that morning, and had been 
rather a surprise. Though brief, it had evi- 
dently been intended as an olive-branch. 

“I suppose you will go,” she said. 

Her eyes watched a dainty little felucca that 
was leaving the harbor with outspread butterfly 
sails. 


214 


FINE CLAY 


“I sometimes think I’d almost better,” he said 
half savagely; “it is no good my remaining 
here.” . . . 

“No good?” 

She had wondered a little at his growing gloom 
during the past few days. 

“I mean — the way you treat me ! I might be 
the veriest stranger!” 

She said gravely: 

“But you have seen me every day.” 

“It is absurd,” he said; “and my position is 
anomalous and unbearable. You are my 
wife.” . . . 

“No — I am not your wife, Gifford,” she said. 
“And it is very difficult for me to know what to 
do. Whichever way we settle the future there 
are innumerable complications to be faced. 
Sometimes, indeed, I have thought it would be 
easier and simpler for me to stay here as I am, 
with papa and Tibby and the baby. It will only 
add to your home difficulties to marry a Catholic 
wife. I am willing to put myself aside for your 
sake.” 

“Do you know what you are telling me, Yo- 
lande?” he burst forth. 

“Telling you?” 

“What I have long suspected — that you don’t 
want me any more — that you don’t love me!” 

She did not answer. 

“I love you more — every day! And you don’t 
care a straw for me — you’d just as soon I went 
home and never came back!” 

She looked at him with kind, grave eyes. 


FINE CLAY 


215 


How was it that now she always felt so much 
older than Gifford? Last year she had felt al- 
most like a child beside him, and had shown a 
child’s submission and docility. 

“You created the position. It isn’t easy for 
either of us. But mine is very much worse than 
yours, Gifford. Do you think it was a very 
happy day when I told my father all our story? 
He was kind because — well, he is always kind — 
and he was sorry for me; but I am his only child, 
and I could not help seeing how deeply he felt it. 
I owe him a great deal — and I am not sure if it 
would not be very selfish to leave him now.” 

“The fact is,” he said, ‘you find you don’t care 
for me any more. At first — when I first came — 
I believed that you did love me. I thought it all 
the more when you put Ambrose into my arms. 
I have done everything I could to smooth the 
path. I have literally cut the ground from under 
my feet as regards my future prospects by mak- 
ing those promises. I’ve deprived my son of his 
possible heritage by agreeing to your conditions. 
And yet you are not satisfied. You are still hesi- 
tating — still wondering” — his eyes as well as his 
scornful tone mocked her — “if you can leave papa 
and Tibby!” 

Yolande flushed. 

“You are cruel to speak like that,” she said; “I 
have so much to consider. Ambrose’s future — as 
well as my own!” 

Before them the road stretched out white and 
empty. Gifford turned suddenly and put his 
arms round her. “Yolande — Yolande — you do 


216 


FINE CLAY 


love me, don’t you? You are not going to desert 
me?” He kissed her, but she freed herself 
quickly. She was sobbing. 

“You don’t trust me? You don’t trust me — 
is that it?” he said. “You think I’m not going to 
keep my word? They’ve been telling you that?” 

“Why should we trust you?” she said. 

Gifford reddened. So that was it — she could 
not forget how he had once duped her. She was 
unwilling to place herself in his power again. 
He believed that she was now completely under 
the influence of other advisers. And at first she 
had seemed to care — at first she had seemed will- 
ing to cement the bonds that had once held them. 

“It is on account of Ambrose that you are hesi- 
tating?” 

“Gifford — do not let us say harsh things to 
each other. Believe me when I tell you I am 
trying to do what is best for us all.” 

She walked on quickly. He followed her 
looking beaten and cowed. All the time he was 
saying to himself : “If I choose I can punish her 
by taking Ambrose away. Ambrose is my son !” 
She did not speak again, but when they reached 
the gate of the villa she turned and held out her 
hand. 

“Good-by,” she said; “I think we had better 
not meet perhaps for a day or two. But I will 
write.” . . . 

Her face was cold and impassive. His heart 
sank. 

“And if you think it well, perhaps you will go 
to Merry wood soon, and see your father and tell 


FINE CLAY 217 

him? That will help us to come to a decision. 
No — do not kiss me, please.” 

Two days passed and she made no sign. Her 
silence still further exasperated him. They had 
been so near to quarreling; and he began to feel 
less sure of her than he had ever done before. 
She had the whip hand of him, and she used her 
power without remorse and pitilessly — this girl 
of nineteen! But he did not go away. He 
waited on at San Giuliano in a state of morose 
gloom and despondency. He was so humbled 
that he desired only to see her — to hear her voice. 
He was exiled from her presence, and the 
thought tortured him. 

On the third day her letter came. It was veiy 
short and she enclosed a longer one from Mr. 
Prendergast, who, it seemed, had now arrived at 
the Villa Viola. The lawyer’s letter set forth 
quite clearly the terms upon which Yolande had 
decided to become his wife, after he had been 
home and seen his father. They were exactly 
what he expected, but seeing them for the first 
time in cold and legal phraseology, he became 
poignantly aware of the sacrifices they entailed. 
For his own son he was compelled to renounce the 
fair heritage of the Strodes, should this ever come 
to him. Never had he hated the Catholic Church 
as he then hated it for its power to despoil his 
children of their rights. It effectually also an- 
nulled the prospect of any eventual reconciliation 
with his own people. But nothing was now too 
hard for him. He bent his back to the blow. 
Her power was complete. He told himself again 


218 


FINE CLAY 


that he loved her far, far more than he had ever 
done. Love compelled surrender. Mr. Pren- 
dergast suggested that he should come up to the 
Villa Viola that afternoon, and have an interview 
with him and Major Pascoe. He was just going 
to write a reply in the affirmative when a tele- 
gram was brought to him. So highly strung were 
his nerves that he felt, as he opened it, that in 
some unknown manner it was to be the arbiter of 
his destiny. . . . 

It was from his father, and bore the Merry- 
wood postmark, and it told him that Rex was 
dead. “The result of an accident” — beyond that 
Lord Strode vouchsafed no details. “Return 
without delay.” 


CHAPTER XX 


G ifford looked out of his window. Beyond 
the loggia, over which the scarlet and gold of 
the fading vine-leaves showed in their vivid au- 
tumn glory, he could see the smiling blue sea, the 
delicately-colored mountains that fringed the 
shore southward, forming that succession of lit- 
tle turquoise-hued bays — like jewels in a necklace 
— cut by the white and brown butterfly sails of 
the fishing-boats; and the lustrous green of the 
palms that made such a thick stripe of darkness 
between him and the shore. It was mid-after- 
noon, the sun was still shining fiercely; the glare 
from the water hurt his eyes. 

Letter and telegram lay open on the table at 
his side, and to his tortured and morbid fancy they 
seemed to be like two strong and cruel hands each 
pulling him in an opposite direction. There was 
the letter which offered him love — the fulfilment 
of the heart’s desire, the passionate realization of 
a dream once known and since bitterly frustrated ; 
and there was the telegram which meant for him 
wealth, position, a place in the world which his 
son might never enjoy after him. 

Yes — it had not been without reason, this fancy 
that the telegram was to serve as some sudden 
arbiter of a destiny none too smooth and easy. 
He remembered how he had often envied Rex his 

219 


220 


FINE CLAY 


birthright; how as a little boy he had been jealous 
of those privileges his brother had enjoyed be- 
cause he was the elder, and how he had sometimes 
longed to be in his place. And Rex had never 
tried to make things easier for him. Four years 
older, he had alternately patronized him and bul- 
lied him. He had jeered at him when he had 
been punished, and had sometimes even been in- 
strumental in bringing about that punishment. 
At the time of the divorce he had never spared 
him those bitter ironical words of which he was a 
past master. Gifford remembered, too, how he 
had referred to the affair of Yolande. And now 
he was dead. . . . He wondered what had been 
the manner of that death. Sudden ... an acci- 
dent . . . how had Lord Strode borne such a 
blow? He had always adored Rex. And al- 
ready Gifford stood in his place. He was the 
heir. He would be Lord Strode: Merrywood 
would be his in the time to come. And the money 
— there was already a great deal of money which 
he would inherit immediately — which belonged to 
the heir, if a son, directly he came of age. Rex 
had for the last eight or nine years been in pos- 
session of an income of between five and six thou- 
sand a year. This would make him a rich man, 
independent of his father. A sense of exulta- 
tion came over him. He was free ... he could 
do just as he chose. And as this thought came to 
his mind like bubbling wine he suddenly remem- 
bered the dead hand that so clutched him and his 
. . . and he shivered, in spite of the heat. He 
rang the bell, and ordered some brandy and soda 
to be brought to him. When it came he poured 


FINE CLAY 


221 


out a stiff glass and drank it. It revived him, 
and went a little to his head. Yes . . . the gods 
— there was a proverb — never gave with both 
hands. Their gifts were grudging, restricted, 
limited. . . . 

He must go home. Perhaps this very day. 
He had a great longing to shake off this idleness, 
this inertia which had seized him. And he re- 
solved not to see Yolande again before he went. 
She would prevent him from looking at his 
altered position with an open mind. She weak- 
ened his will. Her little hands were so powerful 
to hold him, even as they had been strong to 
thrust him from her side through long months of 
determined separation. She had played with 
him as a child plays with a ball. But now she 
should not play with him any more. Other 
things were offered to him — wonderful, precious, 
and beautiful things. And Rex was dead. . . . 
How could he be sorry? He had never pre- 
tended to like him. On the contrary, he had 
often hated him with a savage, vindictive hatred. 
He was not sorry now — he was glad. He should 
not say so — that would be bad taste — but he 
would not pretend to mourn. 

He wrote a few lines to Mr. Prendergast, tell- 
ing him he had been called suddenly home, but 
would make an effort to see him later in London. 
To Yolande he wrote briefly, telling her of the 
telegram, and saying that he was leaving San 
Giuliano immediately. There would be no time 
to come and see her, but he would write from 
Merrywood Place as soon as possible. 


222 


FINE CLAY 


Yolande showed the note to Tibby. 

“What does it mean?” she said. She felt as if 
a cold cloud had come up, blotting out Gifford’s 
figure. She had felt so sure that he would come 
eagerly at the suggestion of Mr. Prendergast, and 
hasten the preliminaries for their marriage. She 
had missed him very much during the past three 
days, and, womanlike, she had already repented 
of her coldness towards him. She had made sure 
that he would come quickly, to hold her in his 
arms and kiss her, and fondle Ambrose in that 
tender way he had. This letter so short, so bare 
of expressions of affection, startled and alarmed 
her. 

“He’s upset perhaps on account of his brother’s 
death,” suggested Tibby. “Was he very fond 
of him?” 

“I don’t think so — he never spoke of him as if 
he were,” said Yolande. Could one never de- 
pend on him? Would he always prove this crea- 
ture of varying moods, of sudden and wayward 
impulses ? 

“Well, he is in a very different position now,” 
said Susan Tibbit; “and he will have to think it 
well over.” 

“But I wish he had come to say good-by, Tibby. 
Why didn’t he?” She was perplexed and sad- 
dened at the news of his departure. 

If he had been in great grief, was not that an 
additional reason for his coming to her? She 
would have tried to comfort him. . . . 

“Perhaps it means that he didn’t like Mr. 
Prendergast’s letter, and that he doesn’t mean to 


FINE CLAY 


223 


comply,” said Tibby. Temptation was too 
strong and she added: 

“I never thought he would. He is weak, Yo- 
lande — weak, that’s what he is. He’s got his 
beauty and nothing more! You’re best quit of 
him!” 

Yolande slid down to the floor, and did what 
she had done so often as a little girl when things 
had gone awry. She hid her face in Tibby ’s lap 
and wept, while Tibby, with large and kindly 
hand, stroked the soft masses of silken black hair. 

“Oh, Tibby — he can’t be going to leave me for 
always! It has been such a fight for me — be- 
tween my love for him and my duty to Ambrose. 
And I was horrid to him the other day — I was 
trying not to show how much I still cared. But 
when Mr. Prendergast said that he had got a 
claim on Ambrose, and had the power also to take 
him away from me and educate him as he chose — 
I couldn’t help seeing that it was best for every 
one I should go back to him, and be his wife. And 
now he has gone without even seeing me!” Piti- 
ful sobs shook her slender body. If Gifford 
could have seen her then he would have been more 
than satisfied as to the depth of her love for him. 
“What shall I do, Tibby — what shall I do? It 
will kill me to lose him now!” 

“Well, you haven’t lost him yet,” said Tibby a 
trifle grimly. “It may be that he thought he’d 
better go off straight like that, and think things 
out a bit alone. And he was going to Merry- 
wood in any case.” . . . 

“But, don’t you see, Tibby — there would have 


224 FINE CLAY 

been so much time for him to come up here before 
the train goes?” 

Miss Tibbit shrugged her shoulders, as if to 
indicate that the ways of men were beyond her, 
and that for her part she was thankful to have 
evaded the complications of love and matrimony. 
But in her heart she was thinking: “He has 
slipped off, as I knew he would, when it came to 
the point. He’ll get rid of her and Baby.” She 
did not dare say this aloud ; besides, she was genu- 
inely sorry for Yolande. 

“We must try and think of him as mourning 
for his brother,” said Tibby at last. 

Yolande rose unsteadily and moved across the 
room, letter in hand. 

“Papa will be angry,” she said; “and I am 
sorry, because he was just beginning to like Gif- 
ford. He spoke quite favorably of him to Mr. 
Prendergast, and said he thought he had been 
mismanaged as a boy, which is quite true, you 
know, Tibby.” 

Over the bay the seagulls were flying like 
winged and silver scimitars. The superb head- 
land of Porto Fino divided the blue of sea and 
sky. The place was so beautiful, yet it could 
bring this blinding misery. Not a fortnight ago 
Gifford had come back to her . . . and now he 
had gone. He had returned the ardent eager 
lover she had always known ; he had departed the 
capricious, selfish man, seeking only his own 
pleasure. She remembered how he had taken her 
in his arms during that last walk, and kissed her 
roughly, fiercely. She had not seen him since 
that day. She had felt almost afraid of him then. 


FINE CLAY 


225 


Were the conditions too hard? Was his love too 
weak to make sacrifices when it came to the point ? 
Or had his new position, and the thought of all 
that it would bring, blinded him temporarily to 
lesser considerations? 

There was a little paragraph in the New York 
Herald a day or two later, which gave a brief ac- 
count of Reginald Lumleigh’s death. Yolande 
read it over many times: 

“We regret to announce the death of the Hon- 
orable Reginald John Victor Lumleigh, elder 
son and heir of Lord Strode, of Merrywood 
Place, Sussex, in his twenty-ninth year. He was 
killed on Tuesday last, having met with an acci- 
dent while out riding. His horse stumbled and 
fell, and deceased received a fractured skull, and 
never recovered consciousness. He was unmar- 
ried, and the next heir is his younger brother, the 
Honorable J ohn Denis Gifford Lumleigh, who is 
now in his twenty-fifth year.” 

Indeed, if Gifford had wished to give Yolande 
a lesson in the reading of her own heart he could 
not have managed the business more deftly than 
by going away suddenly, and without expressing 
regret at not being able to bid her farewell. She 
reproached herself for her treatment of him — yet 
how could she have acted otherwise? At first, 
when he came, it had seemed quite simple and 
natural that they should see each other often, and 
that he should be there with her and her child ; but 
as the days wore on she saw that as long as she 
wavered about the future, it became more neces- 


226 


FINE CLAY 


sary to maintain that formal footing which her 
father had always urged. Then had come Mr* 
Prendergast’s visit, and his view that the mar- 
riage should certainly be made ecclesiastically 
valid, since otherwise Ambrose would be at a 
great disadvantage when he grew older and went 
to school. At school, at college, wherever he 
went in the world, he would inevitably suffer as 
the unrecognized son of Gifford Lumleigh. He 
would not be able to escape questioning, and it 
would mean for him a little purgatory. And at 
present she was evidently in a position to dictate 
final terms to Gifford, in order to safeguard Am- 
brose’s religion. On the other hand, he told her 
frankly that Gifford might take steps to annul 
his marriage, and claim the custody of the boy, 
supposing she refused to be his wife. The deed 
was done, the letter written — and its first result 
had been to send Gifford away in headlong flight. 
Major Pascoe was especially indignant at this 
counter-move. Elusive and slippery, even his 
ardent love for Yolande seemed insufficient to 
hold him, now that his own circumstances were 
so changed. The modern temperament, so impa- 
tient of ties and restraints, was beyond Maxim’s 
comprehension. He had himself been no shin- 
ing example of stability, but in comparison with 
Gifford he was as the solid rock. 

There was nothing to be done ; they could only 
await with patience the letter thus promised. 
Meantime Major Pascoe tried to comfort his 
daughter by assuring her that Rex’s death must 
have been a great shock to him, and that at such 
moments family differences were often forgotten, 


FINE CLAY 


227 


and Gifford’s first thoughts would naturally be 
for his bereaved and stricken parents. Gifford, 
as the heir of Lord Strode, was a very different 
personage from Gifford, the younger son, the 
“scamp” of the family. He had wealth at his 
command — would have independent means suf- 
ficient to support a wife and family, and to make 
provision for his Catholic children, who were de- 
barred from inheriting. It was to be seen 
whether he would choose this course. Mr. 
Prendergast had come out extremely well in- 
formed as to these matters and he was in a posi- 
tion to tell them exactly how far Gifford would 
benefit by his brother’s death. Yolande was, of 
course, convinced that Gifford would come back 
and claim her directly the funeral was over. 
Major Pascoe was unable to predict anything, 
and Tibby, who said nothing, was tacitly certain 
that they had seen the last of young Lumleigh. 
He would take steps to annul the marriage — 
which for her had never been a marriage at all — 
and he would choose a wife who had none of those 
disabilities that belonged to Yolande, and whose 
sons could inherit the property, even if Ambrose 
should keep them out of the title. 


CHAPTER XXI 


M eanwhile the subject of so many hopes and 
fears had returned to Merrywood Place, 
not this time as the Prodigal emerging from long 
obscurity and a lean diet of husks, but as the 
only surviving son and heir. And as the very 
fact of kingship produces a certain dignity in the 
puniest and most insignificant of men, so did the 
consciousness of his position endow Gifford with 
the qualities necessary to sustain it in the eyes of 
that little dominion. His face was set and 
grave; his voice subdued, his lips were firmly 
compressed; he entered the house of mourning 
with a becoming air of dignified, if restrained, 
sorrow. 

Lord Strode, who had adored his eldest son, 
was completely broken down. He held out his 
hand to Gifford, and sobbed without any effort to 
subdue his grief. That a man, so cynical and 
apparently heartless, could cry thus like a child 
astonished Gifford, who murmured broken sen- 
tences of condolence and sympathy. Yet he felt 
awkward and embarrassed at this spectacle of a 
proud, reserved man, literally humbled to the 
dust by grief. As soon as he could, he made an 
excuse for leaving him, and with feelings of min- 
gled curiosity and fear, went up to Rex’s room, 
where he understood the coffin had been placed. 


FINE CLAY 


229 


A very long and narrow coffin rested upon a 
draped bier in the obscurity of the shuttered 
room, which was lit only by two tall candles that 
Lady Strode had ordered to be placed there. 
She had hesitated before adopting this custom 
which she felt to be Romish, but considered that 
some ceremony was necessary to mark the posi- 
tion of her dead son. She, too, had loved him, 
but with perhaps a lesser love than that which 
she had given to Gifford. But her grief was 
frozen, and she had no tears. She sat there quite 
near one of the candles, alternately praying and 
reading her Bible. She did not pray for the re- 
pose of Rex’s soul — that was a Popish custom 
arguing a belief in the pernicious doctrine of 
Purgatory which her Prayer-book condemned — 
yet once it had occurred to her that there might 
be consolation in the practice. It distressed her 
now as never before to know that her husband 
had no belief at all in a future life. The Resur- 
rection of the Body — the Resurrection of the 
Dead — were alike meaningless terms to him. 
He sorrowed as one without hope. . . . 

As Gifford advanced slowly into the room an 
almost eerie feeling crept over him. Something 
of his old fear and dislike and dread of Rex re- 
turned. He, nevertheless, went softly up to the 
coffin and uncovered his brother’s face. 

He started back in terror, for Rex’s head was 
bound in white cloth, which concealed the 
wounds that had been fatal. But a dark jagged 
streak cutting across both finely drawn eyebrows 
was, however, visible. The thin white face, with 
the narrow nose and high cheek-bones, seemed so 


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much smaller than it had ever done in life, and 
was curiously pale and changed. Purged of 
everything of sense and flesh, the mask of clay 
seemed to Gifford almost a travesty of Rex, re- 
sembling more a waxen caricature than anything 
else. The features were almost effeminate-look- 
ing. The lips so quick to gibe and jeer were 
compressed into a grave and mysterious reticence. 
The strong, slender, well-shaped hands were 
shrunken, too, in their pallor; one could not now 
guess at the cruel strength that had once in- 
formed them, making their clutch like a steel 
spring. . . . 

For the first time Gifford felt a strange emo- 
tion. Although the brothers had hated each 
other, the inevitable tie of blood had given to them 
those innumerable, intimate, trivial bonds of 
mutual hereditary interests and associations, 
which even hatred cannot destroy or sever. Rex 
had always been part of his life ; and if he had also 
belonged to its stormier, less pleasant side, he 
was, nevertheless, linked to a thousand memories 
of childhood, boyhood, manhood. Ever since he 
could remember anything, he could recall that 
proud, spoilt, indulged, wilful boy to whom so 
many things were permitted that were forbidden 
to himself. And Rex was dead. . . . He longed 
for him to speak. He had a wish that was al- 
most pain to hear his cold, measured, ironical 
voice uttering its chilling, scornful sarcasms — 
even if they should be at his own expense. The 
sudden crushing of life out of that fine and beau- 
tiful human form in the zenith of its manhood 
seemed to Gifford a wanton cruelty. It was one 


FINE CLAY 


231 


of those sacrifices which appeared to lead to noth- 
ing. He wished that Rex could have lived. He 
felt that he did not want the kind of independ- 
ence and freedom that his brother’s death had be- 
stowed upon him. That wealth, that position, 
only increased his own already heavy responsi- 
bilities. It was a golden chain that fettered him. 
It was like Rex to die now. At no other mo- 
ment could his legacies have been so fraught with 
cynical generosity. He gave at the time when 
Gifford was least able to receive. It increased 
his own difficulties a thousandfold. He felt al- 
most as if the room had suddenly echoed with 
Rex’s mocking, mirthless laughter. 

And then for the first time since he had en- 
tered that abnormally hushed and silent room his 
thoughts turned to Yolande. Was this marble 
shape to be the means of dividing him forever 
from the woman he so profoundly loved, and 
from the son she had borne to him in such ex- 
tremity of peril? The darkness faded away, and 
he seemed to be standing again in the abrupt 
white sunlight of the South ; he saw the pale road 
winding like a sinuous ribbon from San Giul- 
iano towards Porto Fino; he saw the blue sky 
and the blue sparkling waters of the bay, and 
Yolande was beside him; he held her in his arms. 
Was that kiss to be the last? Was he to set 
her aside because of his new duties, his new 
responsibilities? As these very questions had 
hastened his so precipitate departure from San 
Giuliano, so they now took possession of his 
thoughts. ... It was her fault; she had made 
the conditions too hard. Not too hard for Gif- 


232 


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ford Lumleigh, the younger son, but too hard for 
Lord Strode’s only surviving son and heir. Her 
cold prudence, her unyielding, uncompromising 
attitude seemed to alienate«her from this new Gif- 
ford. . . . His father’s abandoned grief, his 
mother’s bitter, frozen silence had deeply im- 
pressed him, and had awakened a certain solici- 
tude in his heart for them both. He could not 
add any further burden to their heavy sorrow. 
Since Rex was dead they had only himself to look 
to; he was the sole hope of the house. He had 
yet to win their confidence. He had often failed 
and disappointed them. He made a kind of 
tacit resolution to be a dutiful son in future, to 
respect their wishes, to set himself aside. And 
Yolande belonged to that other life which was al- 
ready beginning to seem dim and far away, los- 
ing in perspective some of its bright detail — that 
self-seeking life which Rex’s death had so ab- 
ruptly ended. And the thought of Yolande was 
already tinged with bitterness, as if he must teach 
himself to hate first that which he intended de- 
liberately to hurt. Had she not left him de- 
cisively, definitely, in the midst of their first 
wedded happiness? He recalled his agonizing 
struggle to find her after the death of his first 
wife, and how she had persistently eluded him; 
those months of unbroken silence which had so 
chilled and saddened him ; her denial of her very 
wifehood, her iron determination to keep the boy 
in her own hands at any cost. Looking back 
upon these things, away from the very sensible 
glamour of her beautiful presence, her character 
seemed to him strangely devoid of tenderness. 


FINE CLAY 


233 


While she professed love for him — and in those 
passionate and beautiful bridal days she had most 
surely loved him — she would not move one step 
to meet him, to make things easier for him. 

And now Rex had left him to deal with this 
dilemma, to solve an apparently insoluble prob- 
lem. As he watched the faint flicker of a smile 
seemed to part those frozen, colorless lips. 
Drops of perspiration stood on Gifford’s brow. 
How old Rex looked — so much older than he had 
ever done in life. It was as if this death, of 
whose approach, of whose agony, he had known 
nothing — if the doctors were to be believed — had 
yet bestowed upon him some definite cognizance 
and perception of its immense and overwhelming 
experience. 

He had never imagined that Rex would die so 
young. He had always thought of him as living 
to be an old man, with his children and grandchil- 
dren about him, carrying on in his own person the 
iron rule of his father over great and small at 
Merry wood. Yet he had never seemed to en- 
visage the desirability of marrying; that sug- 
gested alliance with Lady Kathleen Purflete had 
flickered out long ago, and he had never softened 
to the advances of Lamorna. 

Lady Strode sat there without stirring. She 
seemed, indeed, hardly conscious of Gifford’s 
presence. His disturbing thoughts communi- 
cated none of their unrest to her. She was ab- 
sorbed in her own grief, the mother’s grief for 
her first-born. 

Gifford went noiselessly out of the room and 
upstairs to his own apartments. They were 


234 


FINE CLAY 


already prepared, but in the gloom of those 
drawn blinds he could distinguish little. There 
was a tantalus on the table, and he poured some 
brandy into a glass and filled it from a syphon. 
His nerves were shattered by all he had gone 
through — the sudden shock, the anguish of leav- 
ing Yolande, the long train- j ourney, when he had 
been jolted and shaken for nearly twenty-four 
hours, the sad home-coming. As he sat there 
drinking, his father opened the door and came 
into the room. 

Lord Strode had regained something of com- 
posure, though the traces of his two-days’-old 
grief were still visible upon his face. He looked 
aged and broken, and in some sense weakened. 

“My dear boy,” he said, “my dear Gifford — it 
is a great comfort to have you back, both to your 
mother and myself. You could not have been 
here in time to see your dead brother alive. He 
only lived five hours, and he did not know any of 
us. You will stay with us now, I am sure . . . 
until you marry. And, in the meantime, you 
must take your place as the eldest son . . . the 
heir. I am getting an old man, Gifford, and 
there are many things regarding the property 
and estate which you will have to know now. 
Wealth is always a responsibility — in your case a 
very great responsibility. But I am sure you 
will do your duty. You have a clean sheet now. 
The poor thing you married is dead, and you 
must be particularly careful to avoid another mis- 
take. There is nothing to prevent your making 
a brilliant marriage now, Gifford.” 


FINE CLAY 


235 


During this long speech his pale eyes were 
fixed almost hungrily upon his son — this son 
whom he had never loved and upon whom he had 
yet to learn to rely. 

Gifford’s face flushed a little. How could he 
ever tell him of Yolande — of Ambrose? How 
could he still further wound that grief-stricken 
heart? He cleared his throat, and after a mo- 
ment’s hesitation answered gravely: 

“I shall do my best, father. I am afraid I 
have done nothing so far to merit your confi- 
dence. But now . . . although I can never 
make up to you for the loss of Rex I will try and 
do my duty.” 

He meant every word of it, just as he had cer- 
tainly meant every eager word of love he had 
uttered to Yolande. He had no intention of 
deceiving either her or his father. The perfidy 
of his nature was much too deep-seated a thing; 
he was false without realizing it. 

“My dear boy — we haven’t always understood 
each other. But we must change that now. 
Our great common loss must knit us more closely 
together. Your youth was perhaps to blame, 
and then Rex was singularly perfect, he was 
everything a son could be, and never gave us an 
hour’s anxiety. That made me impatient — per- 
haps a little hard — with you, because you fell 
short of that standard Rex had set. He was an 
ideal son ; he seemed to anticipate our wishes. It 
isn’t the time to discuss business matters now, 
and you must be tired after your long journey; 
but after the funeral Hurrell will come down 


236 


FINE CLAY 


and explain everything very clearly to you. It 
will give you a lot of work, for Rex has taken a 
good deal off my shoulders of late years.” 

“I have never had much head for business,” 
said Gifford, “but of course I’ll do my best. 
I’ve been working for a firm in town for more 
than a year now, so I have learnt something. 
I’ll try and not disappoint you.” 

Lord Strode paused as if trying to make up 
his mind to approach a difficult and delicate sub- 
ject. 

“Ah, I suppose you took that up when you 
went off in that headstrong way last year?” 
The epoch seemed to him so remote that he had 
almost lost sight of the reason for Gifford’s ab- 
rupt departure. Then, as if following up a 
train of thought, he continued slowly, as if afraid 
to probe an ancient sore: 

“And that girl at Boulogne, Gifford? I hope 
you have quite broken with her? No more cor- 
respondence, or any talk of an engagement? 
You will have to be most careful in future to 
avoid that kind of entanglement.” . . . 

Gifford faced his father with frank eyes, and 
lied as he had learned to lie when he was a little 
hoy, when his sole motive had been to save his 
skin. 

“Oh, that’s quite over, father,” he said. And 
he added: “Ages ago.” 

“I’m very glad indeed to hear that, Gifford. 
God bless you, my boy.” 

And with an air of relief that he could not sup- 
press Lord Strode went out of the room. His 
face wore a much happier aspect. But he did 


FINE CLAY 


237 


not look back at his son, who watched him as he 
went away with a face that seemed suddenly 
turned to stone. That was the face, hard, im- 
penetrable, which Gifford Lumleigh was des- 
tined to show in future to friend and enemy alike. 
It was the face of a man who has locked up a 
secret within his heart, and turned the key. . . . 


CHAPTER XXII 


O ctober had nearly come to an end. There 
were beautiful days at Merrywood, almost 
summerlike in their warmth, days of wonderful 
pale sunshine and soft south caressing winds 
stealing from the sea across the boldly-designed 
downs. The chestnuts were for the most part 
bare, but then had they not been almost the first 
to put forth their green pyramids of flame to 
greet the spring? The elms were still green, 
and the elms at the Place were immense and 
splendid. Through their spreading, stately 
boughs the blue and white spaces of the sky 
seemed full of wind and light. Only the leaves 
were no longer so close and thick and secretive 
as in summer; the details of the branches were 
more visible in their warm purple outlines, and 
here and there the foliage had turned yellow and 
seemed to toss golden blossoms to laugh at the 
sun. The grass in the Park was vividly emerald, 
with piles of russet coppery leaves flung down in 
careless largess by the chestnuts and beeches. 

Directly the funeral was over — a stately cere- 
monious funeral attended by half the county — 
Gifford began to realize the change in his own 
circumstances and importance. He was a Some- 
body, instead of being a detrimental and unsatis- 
factory Nobody. It was natural that just at 


FINE CLAY 


239 


first it should go to his head. But his reckless 
days were passed. A cold prudence informed 
his words and actions. If he thought of Yo- 
lande during those first weeks it was with a feel- 
ing akin to fear that she might take him at his 
word — that word so often given. But as a rule 
he put the thought of her away from him. He 
stood in Rex’s place, and to a man who has had 
nothing the first consciousness of wealth and im- 
portance is by no means unpleasant, and it must 
be said that he enjoyed those prerogatives which 
had automatically descended to him. This was 
his life, and if he ever felt that life had cheated 
him, dragging him thus from Yolande’s side, he 
wasted then but little time in idle regrets. 

He was very busy, and with the new responsi- 
bilities came a decided wish to please his father, 
to be a model son. He set himself to play that 
part which Lord Strode had indicated to him 
when he first returned after his brother’s death. 
The weeks slipped by; he listened to the long 
legal explanations of Mr. Hurrell, the family 
solicitor; he learned all the details of the estate; 
in short, he did all that was expected and re- 
quired of him, wearing still that frozen, imper- 
turbable face which gave no hint of any interior 
struggle. 

So a month passed, and gradually his thoughts 
were won back, in spite of himself, to that for- 
bidden land — the Villa Viola at San Giuliano. 

Yolande was silent — as, indeed, she had al- 
ways been. No letters came to disturb him — let- 
ters that at first he had feared might come, and 
for which he subsequently learned to long with a 


240 


FINE CLAY 


sickening suspense. But she made no effort to 
call him back. In this she puzzled him, 
because she had seemed on the point of yielding 
— on her own terms — when he had left San 
Giuliano. He began again to doubt her love. 
Did she love him? Not enough to renounce any- 
thing for him. Not enough to give him a free 
hand with his son. He was unsettled, silent, al- 
most morose; he felt enclosed by a bleak pall of 
ice that chilled body and soul. Yet he did not 
wish as yet overmuch to return to Yolande. The 
complications were too vast, too intricate. 
While his parents were still in such deep distress 
he could not bring them further pain. He could 
not sacrifice them to Yolande. Sometimes he 
was angry with her, and cruel in his anger, de- 
termining to go and claim his son and bring her 
to her knees. Then he would soften again and 
let the days slip by. . . . 

“He must marry as soon as possible,” said 
Lord Strode to his wife. “That dreadful woman 
is dead, poor thing! and he can marry where he 
chooses. I think, perhaps, that Lady Kathleen 
Purflete . . . you know we hoped once that 
Rex” . . . He sighed. 

“Oh, I don’t think he would ever take a fancy 
to Cat,” said Lady Strode, looking up sorrow- 
fully. 

She knew that Lady Kathleen had been in 
love with Gifford — as far as she was capable of 
being in love with any one — since she first came 
out. And she was equally sure that Gifford 
would never give her a second thought. She 


FINE CLAY 


241 


was not pretty, and she had no charm, but she 
was simple, unaffected, a little noisy, and a thor- 
oughly good sportswoman. She had plenty of 
money, and would certainly make an excellent 
wife, but not for Gifford. He must marry only 
where he loved. . . . 

She knew — though her husband did not — that 
this Gifford was a stranger. The passionate, 
reckless boy had become a controlled, reticent 
man. She felt that he had retreated, shell within 
shell. For this she blamed his early training, 
which had had the effect of destroying his candor. 
She knew nothing about him. He was a sealed 
book — this quiet man who sat at meat with them 
day by day, doing the things that Rex had al- 
ways done, automatically and without any en- 
thusiasm. She had the impression that he hated 
doing them, and that his heart, his soul, were 
elsewhere. Elsewhere? She had no key. The 
girl at Boulogne — the last of his many flirtations 
of which anything at all definite had been known ? 
He had assured his father that that was a past 
episode, over and done with before Rex’s death. 
His divorced wife was dead. On the face of it his 
prospects were golden enough. And he moved 
and spoke like a scarcely animated mask. 

One night, finding him alone in the library, she 
went up to him, and, putting her arms round his 
neck, she kissed him. He was standing near the 
window; she had to draw his face down to hers. 
It was so unusual for her to display any affection 
that he turned in surprise and said: “What is 
the matter, mother?” in a tone so cold it chilled 
her. 


242 


FINE CLAY 


She flushed. “Dear — I was wondering what 
you were thinking of.” 

“Only of the stars,” he said, pointing to those 
golden lamps, shining through and above the 
elms that stood just beyond the sunk fence. 

She said: “They are beautiful to-night,” and 
waited, yearning for him to speak. 

But he did not speak; his young, hard, restless 
eyes, dark under their black lashes, gazed straight 
in front of him. 

When he spoke again he only said: 

“I think this fine weather is going to last. The 
glass is very high.” 

Lady Strode recoiled a little from her son. 
Her frail hands ached to destroy this invisible but 
invincible barrier. 

“Dear,” she said, “I ... I wish you would 
tell me.” . . . 

She said it with a sudden impulse, yet when 
the words were uttered she trembled with fear. 

“Tell you what, mother?” There was more 
than a hint of impatience in his tone as he looked 
at her, cool, critical, slightly scornful. 

“About yourself,” she said desperately; “why 
you are not happy here . . . what is it that you 
are fretting about!” 

He opened his lips as if to answer, then closed 
them. In the darkness he could have brought 
himself, perhaps, to tell her. But between them, 
ever dividing them, he felt the presence of his 
father, who had all her confidence and insisted 
upon having it. A fierce, indomitable figure 
whom she feared. She would never have kept a 
secret from him. Better to go on like this than 


FINE CLAY 


243 


arouse that slumbering fury. Peace at any price 
. . . even at this price. 

“Dear mother, what strange fancies you have!” 
he said, and his cold voice flicked her like a lash. 
“It isn’t quite the moment, is it, for the betrayal 
of any exuberant joy?” 

He was glad that she turned away then, and 
left him. She was his mother, but she was also 
his father’s wife, dutiful, submissive, withholding 
no secrets. It seemed difficult for a woman to 
fulfil the delicate and conflicting roles of wife 
and mother. The part which women played in 
the lives of men was a complicated one. They 
needed all the cunning of wild, swift, hunted 
things to escape laceration and destruction. He 
felt sharp pity for his mother, and then a com- 
passion even more deep and intense for Yolande. 
They were the two women who theoretically 
should have been nearest to him, whose love 
should have been able to melt him, and surround 
him with an exquisite peace. And they had in 
a sense both sacrificed him. One to her husband ; 
the other to her son. . . . 

He was no longer standing in the library at 
Merrywood, looking at the Sussex skies with the 
stars shining above the dark boughs of those 
wind-tossed elms. He was treading the white 
road that led down to the harbor at San Giuliano, 
with the dark, moving sea in front of him, and 
above his head the violet night-sky of the South, 
. . . pierced with those same stars that watched 
him now through the old elms of Merrywood 
Place. 

“Dear . . . my dear” ... he whispered softly. 


244 


FINE CLAY 


Not long afterwards he became painfully 
aware of the existence of Cat Purflete. When 
he came into the library to tea one afternoon, he 
found her sitting there with his mother who, since 
Rex’s death, had received no guests. It aroused 
Gilford’s suspicions a little; he remembered that 
she had once been considered a suitable girl for 
Rex to marry. 

Lady Kathleen surveyed him. Very good- 
looking, she decided — perhaps more so than he 
had ever been, and almost as disagreeable-look- 
ing now as Rex. Only, while the one had been 
smiling and ironic the other was gloomy and 
morose of aspect. Three or four years ago she 
had been very much in love with him, although 
he had hardly ever spoken to her ; it was a young 
girl’s fancy, and the hint of wildness had proved 
an additional and mysterious attraction. 

“Do you hate England as much as ever?” she 
asked, as he offered her some cake. 

“I don’t remember ever saying that I hated 
it.” 

“You’ve kept pretty clear of it, haven’t you?” 
she said and laughed. But her voice had a nice 
wholesome sympathetic ring, and it won a smile 
from him. 

“I like traveling, if you mean that,” he said. 

“Oh, do you?” she said. “I simply hate the 
sea, and the train, too, if it comes to that. And 
I hate going to countries where I can’t under- 
stand a word of what people are saying!” 

He thought of Yolande, with her soft, per- 
fect French, her pretty, careful Italian, above 


FINE CLAY 


245 


all that touch of foreign accent when she spoke 
English which seemed to him so wholly adorable. 

“I haven’t the gift of tongues, you see,” she 
said. 

“No? Of course, it is a gift,” he admitted ab- 
sently. 

“And then everything’s so much nicer in Eng- 
land!” 

“Is it?” 

“But don’t you think so yourself? Does any 
one like those musty churches with the weird 
frescoes, and those endless picture galleries? 
And the dreadful, tawdry images of madonnas 
and saints!” 

(Yes, and Yolande kneeling there, devout, 
recollected; her head bowed amid the shadows. 
. . . Yolande on the cliff with the sun upon her 
hair, praying to the Crucified that he, Gifford, 
might love her. . . .) 

“I’m shocking you, I suppose. But I am very 
British.” . . . 

He smiled at her. “But isn’t that a good thing 
to be?” 

“I don’t even care for that cosmopolitan set in 
London. Those women who rush over to Paris 
to buy a veil !” 

“Don’t you?” said Gifford, still absently. 

“Shall you hunt this winter, Mr. Lumleigh?” 
She thought it wise to change the subject. 

“I suppose so.” 

“And do you hate that, too?” 

“I admit I am not passionately fond of it. 
But I hunt and shoot like every one else.” 


246 FINE CLAY 

“I simply love hunting,” she said. Her eyes 
shone. 

But she could not win him from that absent, 
cold mood. His dreams were too far off — too 
beautiful ... he was with Yolande, with Am- 
brose — that pale, thin, sallow baby with the black, 
mournful eyes. . . . 

He learned bitterly the meaning of nostalgia. 
Lady Strode was tender and patient. She saw 
that if Cat had made any impression it was hardly 
a favorable one. Mrs. Sydney Lumleigh was 
invited to come for a few weeks with Robin, more 
for her husband’s sake than for Gifford’s. It 
was believed that Robin would cheer Lord Strode 
from his present mood of somber melancholy. 
Robin was nearly two years old, swift and active 
for his age, a lovely child of the real Anglo- 
Saxon type. Masses of fair, flaxen hair curling 
like an aureole above his brow ; blue eyes and rosy 
cheeks. His chatter got a little on Gifford’s 
nerves. Mrs. Sydney Lumleigh bored him with 
her delicate invalid ways. And now they wanted 
him to marry Cat. . . . He longed more than 
ever to break his bonds ... to leave all . . . 
for Yolande. . . . The sight of Robin made his 
heart ache afresh. He was losing the precious 
infancy of his own son. 

He had not written — not a single line. But 
he pictured Yolande waiting for him in the olive- 
woods of San Giuliano ... he could see her 
standing on the white road that led to Porto 
Fino. . . . 

“Dear . . . my dear.” . . . 


FINE CLAY 


247 


What was it all worth apart from her? . . . 
And behind it all there was the nervous fear that 
any day Lord Strode might become more in- 
sistent upon the subject of marriage. He had 
dreaded that this might happen the day after 
Lady Kathleen’s visit. 

“She is a very charming girl. I hoped once 
that Rex” . . . said Lord Strode. 

“I don’t like those big, strong women who 
laugh so loud 1” he said irritably. 

Lord Strode said nothing, but his face assumed 
a perplexed and rather pained expression. Gif- 
ford had never been one who could be driven. 
And he had been extraordinarily reasonable and 
calm of late, applying himself with diligence to 
all Mr. Hurrell’s instructions. He was perhaps 
more brilliant than Rex, and he had traveled 
more and seen more, and had a wider view of 
things. He would bring a more modern out- 
look to bear upon his affairs, and Lord Strode 
began to feel that when Gifford’s time to succeed 
came he would prove a wise and prudent stew- 
ard. He was eager to recognize good qualities 
in his surviving son. Both his parents watched 
Gifford now with a proud and anxious solicitude. 
If he would only go on as he had begun and set 
the seal upon his reformation by an early and 
wise marriage! ... So the weeks passed 
smoothly and uneventfully. Gifford saw with 
poignant insight the trend of their hopes, fears, 
and wishes. He longed to please them — to live 
up to the standard so tacitly set before him. But 
for the moment he simply let things drift. He 
tried to put Yolande from his thoughts; he tried 


248 


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to forget the baby who had awakened in him 
such a passionate emotion of paternal love. 
Above all, he desired to confess the whole matter 
to his parents and entreat their forgiveness. 
But he knew that this was impossible unless he 
could first break down the religious obduracy of 
Yolande 0 


CHAPTER XXIII 


G ifford was just beginning to settle down, and 
quiet his conscience and put the thought of 
Yolande and Ambrose from his mind, when he 
received one morning a letter with the Italian 
stamp upon it. The handwriting was strange 
to him, but the postmark of San Giuliano left 
little room for doubt that it had been written by 
one of the inmates of the Villa Viola. 

On opening it he turned at once to the signa- 
ture, and read the name written in large sprawl- 
ing characters: Maxim Pascoe. He took it up 
to his own room and read it alone, while an ex- 
pression of extreme annoyance clouded his face. 
What was the man writing to him for? Why 
could he not leave him alone? Christmas was 
fast approaching; his hands were full; there were 
innumerable calls upon his time. It was a most 
inappropriate moment to approach him! . . . 
The letter ran as follows: 

“Dear Mr. Lumleigh (Major Pascoe had 
never departed from this most formal mode of 
address in speaking to him), — I am writing to 
tell you that Yolande has been very ill with a 
sharp attack of diphtheria; she is still extremely 
weak, and Ambrose is now laid up with it, and we 
are all very anxious about him. He is not strong, 
as you know, and the doctor has a grave doubt 


250 


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as to whether the poor little boy will pull through. 
I have not, however, told Yolande this, lest the 
anxiety should retard her own recovery. Under 
any other circumstances I should not have writ- 
ten to you, as I am at a loss to conjecture the 
reasons for your long and extraordinary silence. 
But I believe that your continued absence, com- 
bined with your altogether inexplicable silence, 
is a source of great anxiety to my daughter; and, 
therefore, very much against my will I am writ- 
ing to ask you to come here as soon as you can. 
Perhaps you will be able also to arrive at some 
definite conclusion with regard to the future, and 
thus set her mind at rest. 

“Yours truly, 

“Maxim Pascoe.” 

Although it was so short the letter made his 
face burn. He could read between the lines, and 
he knew quite well what Major Pascoe must 
think of him. Living as he was doing in the 
quite novel atmosphere of his father’s approba- 
tion and affectionate solicitude, he had begun to 
believe himself the fine and upright character 
that Lord Strode was learning to regard him. 
Yet this man — this damaged, dissipated creature, 
with a reputation that left much to be desired, 
despite his present suggestion of temporary ref- 
ormation — most obviously held him to be mean, 
despicable, worthless. His continued absence 
. . . his inexplicable silence. . . . Yes — that 
was how it struck the little group of people at 
the Villa Viola. “You were only the man she 
had trusted and who had brought her so low,” — 


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251 


he could recall Major Pascoe’s words flung at 
him with fierce violence during their first inter- 
view at San Giuliano. And just as Yolande 
was learning to trust him again, to admit the 
possibility of placing her future life and that of 
her little son in his hands, to forgive him for 
all that bygone deception, that past humiliation, 
he had turned away as from an insupportably 
difficult situation, and had deliberately set her 
aside. Yes, he had done this deliberately, had 
crystallized the position by months of absence and 
silence because it fitted in best with his present 
scheme of life. He loved her, but new things 
charmed this hard and worldly and self-seeking 
man, who had become Lord Strode’s heir. 

He put down the letter. Yet . . . when all 
was said and done, how delicate was Yolande’s 
treatment of him! . . . She had been very ill — 
perhaps even worse than her father had said — 
and diphtheria was in its mildest form a painful 
and dangerous malady. He had had no intima- 
tion of her illness until she had partially recov- 
ered, until, indeed, his son had fallen a prey to 
the malady. There had been no playing upon 
the sentimental side of him. Instead, he had 
been suffered to remain in happy ignorance of 
it. This delicacy, this restraint, this cold and 
unintimate attitude towards him, were things 
Gifford was able to appreciate. He was fas- 
tidious, and he had always been piqued by Yo- 
lande’s silence, her elusiveness. It was only in 
those bridal days that he had known anything 
of the passionate and devoted and beautiful ten- 
derness of which she was capable. Neither be- 


252 


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fore their marriage nor since her abrupt flight 
had she ever shown that side of herself to him. 
During his visit to Italy he had felt as if she 
had placed a thin screen of ice between herself 
and him. And he had broken his heart over her 
coldness ; he could pity himself even now in retro- 
spect with a sentimental compassion when he re- 
membered those last days. He had wanted her 
then — heart and soul and body had alike cried 
out for her whom he still believed to be his wife. 
But the two eventful months of separation had 
seen the birth of a new Gifford — a hard, capable, 
self-seeking, and ambitious man, who still loved 
her, but was not prepared to surrender to the con- 
ditions she wished to impose. The wand of gold 
had touched and transformed him. And, to this 
new Gifford, Yolande and Ambrose were en- 
cumbrances in the way of success, obstacles in 
the path. If Yolande still insisted upon the con- 
dition that Ambrose should be brought up as a 
Catholic, he saw no course open to him but to 
annul the marriage, and, if possible, owing to its 
irregularity, to establish the illegitimacy of Am- 
brose. Then he would marry — for the sake of 
his house and name — an English girl of good 
family. Not Cat — for he demanded charm and 
beauty as well as birth. But there must be no 
damaged and disreputable father in the field of 
vision, hovering like some ill-omened bird of prey 
in the background! . . . 

Still, the letter was there, and it had to be 
answered. Major Pascoe was something of an 
unknown quantity to Gifford; he appeared to 
have undergone a considerable change since his 


FINE CLAY 


253 


daughter’s history had taken such a tragic turn. 
And hitherto he had been commendably silent. 
This letter was his first definite action. He had 
never sought to communicate with him before. 
Gifford felt a little alarmed. The man had 
turned over a new leaf since the Boulogne days, 
and Yolande and her baby were now his chief in- 
terests in life. He was quite devoted to them, and 
had given up all his own pleasures to live a life 
of solitude and seclusion with them at the Villa 
Viola. There was no doubt that, if necessary, 
he was prepared to fight his daughter’s battles 
for her. He might even contemplate the desira- 
bility of obtaining a dissolution of the English 
marriage, which under the circumstances could 
hardly be difficult of achievement. This would 
mean for Gifford what he most feared — the pub- 
lication of this fresh matrimonial entanglement, 
and the inevitable disclosure to his parents of re- 
cent perfidy and deception. He might any day 
be driven into a corner, and compelled to make 
a clean breast of this delinquency, annulling all 
the good opinions which he had sought to win 
from them of late at such great cost, and de- 
stroying those suave, agreeable and even affec- 
tionate relations which at present existed be- 
tween him and his father. 

It was quite possible that letters less cold, less 
temperately worded, and altogether less amica- 
ble, might succeed to the one which now lay before 
him. He thought that he might learn to dread 
the arrival of his daily letters. Annoyed and 
perplexed, he wrote several rough drafts of a re- 
ply. But none pleased him. It was, however, 


254 


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absolutely necessary to temporize until he had 
sought the advice of Mr. Hurrell. Perhaps it 
would be simpler to confide in the lawyer, put- 
ting the whole matter plainly before him. Hur- 
rell was a broad-minded man of the world, so ac- 
customed to human peccadilloes that he had long 
ago ceased to be shocked at any exhibition of 
human baseness, meanness, or depravity. If 
there was a way out of the imbroglio — a safe and 
silent way — without doubt Hurrell would put a 
dry legal finger upon it. But in the meantime it 
was hardly feasible to leave home and go to town 
to consult him, and as the head of the firm he 
would probably be absent for his Christmas holi- 
day. And there were many things connected 
with the season which had to be attended to at 
Merry wood. Everything was to be subdued and 
quiet owing to the recent death of Reginald, but 
certain customs were as unalterable as the prover- 
bial laws of the Medes and Persians. And Gif- 
ford had undertaken to see to such matters, di- 
recting agent and secretary, and communicating 
to them his father’s wishes. So the interview 
must be postponed, for it now only wanted a 
week till Christmas, and in the meantime. Major 
Pascoe’s letter seemed to demand a conciliatory 
reply. Gifford finally decided upon adopting a 
lofty tone and the letter which was finally written 
and posted by himself a day or two later at the 
nearest large town, ran as follows: 

“Dear Major Pascoe, — I am indeed dis- 
tressed to hear that both Yolande and Ambrose 
have been suffering from diphtheria, but I trust 


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255 


they are now on the high road to convalescence. 
I am afraid I am unable to give you any other 
reason for my long silence than the plea of very 
pressing business affairs, which since the death 
of my elder brother have practically taken up all 
my time and attention. Much of the business 
of the estate has since his death devolved upon 
me. It has, therefore, been impossible for me 
to attend to my own affairs, or to leave Merry- 
wood and my parents, who now have no other son 
to look to. But I will try and arrange to come 
out and have a definite talk with you later on. 
I must add that both my father and mother are 
quite ignorant of my soi-disant second marriage, 
and it is highly necessary that I should not add 
to their present bitter sorrow by intruding such 
an unwelcome fact upon them. I do not know 
if there is any prospect of Yolande’s changing 
her very obdurate views upon the question of re- 
ligion. If this were done all might yet be ar- 
ranged on a smooth and happy basis. My al- 
tered situation has shown me the necessity for 
not taking any rash or imprudent steps. Yo- 
lande’s past disinclination to make any compro- 
mise on the religious question must be regarded as 
one of the chief causes of my silence and absence. 

“Believe me, 

“Yours truly, 

“Gifford Lumleigh.” 

Happily, or perhaps unhappily (since the in- 
struction thus acquired might possibly prove of 
infinite service in the matter of future communi- 
cations) , we cannot follow our letters to their des- 


256 


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tinations and witness the effect of them upon their 
recipients. Yet Gifford could have been in little 
doubt as to the effect of his missive upon a deli- 
cate woman who was only just recovering from a 
dangerous illness. Not that he had intended de- 
liberately to hurt her, although he knew the letter 
must come like a fresh wound; but he had re- 
solved to give her a definite inkling as to the 
change which was coming over his attitude to- 
wards her. It was not the moment, he assured 
himself, to think of her feelings, and he hoped 
that he had not been too brutal; but it was un- 
doubtedly the moment to deal firmly and de- 
cisively with Major Pascoe, and to show him 
that, far from being willing to accept her condi- 
tions, he was definitely disposed to combat them. 

“Is there any letter, papa?” 

Yolande came out into the loggia with Am- 
brose in her arms. The loggia faced south, and 
was warm with the golden sunshine. Christmas 
Day had dawned unusually fair and bright. 

Ambrose was almost hidden from view, so 
closely was he wrapped up, for he was only just 
getting over his attack, and was still very weak. 
He cried and fretted from time to time. The 
illness had pulled him down, and he was an emaci- 
ated little skeleton, with all the soft and rosy 
curves of his little body shrunken to yellow skin 
and bone. His dark eyes looked enormous, 
sunken and wistful, and rather pathetic, as if suf- 
fering had puzzled his baby intelligence. Yo- 
lande had been up night and day with him ever 
since her own convalescence. When he slept she 
spent the time praying passionately for his re- 


FINE CLAY 


257 


covery. She had had a trained nurse sent from 
Genoa — a nun, who devoted herself to the child 
— and Miss Tibbit was also unceasing in her care. 
But Yolande could not be brought to relinquish 
Ambrose entirely into their keeping. In spite 
of her own acute weakness she resisted the en- 
treaties of the doctor and of her father that she 
should spare herself. She looked now very ill, 
and something of the fresh youth had gone from 
her face. 

Major Pascoe flung Gifford’s letter on the 
table and smoked in silence for some moments. 
He knew that he could not keep its contents from 
her. Yolande was a person to whom frank treat- 
ment was the only possible one. She could bare 
her breast for a blow and receive it without a 
sound, but agonizing suspense wore her to a 
shadow. 

“You’ve got to know, I suppose,” he grunted. 
“I’d have saved you if I could.” He watched 
her anxiously as she sat there, still with Ambrose 
pressed to her heart, reading Gifford’s letter. He 
saw with anguish how the last two months had 
changed her. 

When she put it down her face was still calm, 
though its pallor was almost deathly now; she 
seemed to clasp Ambrose a little more closely. 

“You think, then, he doesn’t mean to come at 
all?” she said pitifully. 

The Major nodded. 

“If it weren’t for the boy I should forbid him 
to come near you again!” he said almost fiercely. 

“But I don’t want him to come, papa — if he is 
unwilling. And I can see from this letter that 


258 


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he doesn’t care any more — not, at least, as he used 
to care. He doesn’t want us. He has other 
things to think of.” She looked out seawards 
with large wistful eyes. How dear he had been — 
this man who had used her so ill ! F or the sake of 
his love she had forgiven him much. And now 
that love was dead — or at least dying. His “al- 
tered situation” set a seal on that youthful folly. 
Their ways lay far apart. And she and her boy 
were to be set aside. 

There were two people in Gifford, and she had 
known and loved dearly that better self which was 
so seldom in the ascendant. She could never 
have learned to condemn him altogether. 

Ambrose woke and cried. She rocked him in 
her arms, kissing his dark rings of hair, murmur- 
ing words of tenderness. He was all that re- 
mained to her of that beautiful love-dream. 

“You mustn’t pity me too much, papa,” she 
said, with a wan smile that hurt him; “I’ve got 
Ambrose. Is it wicked of me to think he was 
worth it all?” She put her thin cheek against the 
baby’s. “And I’ve got you and Tibby. I’m sur- 
rounded with so much love that I ought not to 
complain !” 

“Anyhow, Ambrose need never know what an 
unmitigated scoundrel his father is !” said Maxim 
Pascoe. 

“Oh, you mustn’t abuse him,” she said softly 
with shining eyes. “He has so much good in 
him. Only he has never had a chance.” 

“You can do nothing with a man who isn’t 
straight,” said Major Pascoe. “I’ve a very good 
mind to write to his father.” 


FINE CLAY 


259 


“Oh, you mustn’t do that,” she said. “For 
my sake you mustn’t do that. If he can’t love 
me I don’t want him to learn to hate me. I’d 
rather be a pleasant memory to him. And you 
must remember that I do love him still.” She 
made this admission with an almost childlike 
frankness. “I don’t want to make it impossible 
for him to come back if he ever wishes to. If we 
write bitter unforgivable things now it would pre- 
vent any reconciliation in the future. And he 
must not displease his father when he is in such 
great grief. We must be patient. Amd when- 
ever he does come ... he will be welcome.” . . . 

The Major groaned. 

“Oh, you’re a nice pair ! Where’s your pride, 
little girl?” 

“Haven’t you seen it?” she said, hurt and be- 
wildered. “I laid down my conditions plainly 
enough . . . and he can’t accept them.” 

“I beg your pardon, my dear,” he said; “I 
spoke too hastily. No one could have behaved 
more beautifully and wisely in a very difficult po- 
sition. But I hate to think you can keep a place 
in your heart for him still, after the way he has 
behaved.” . . . 

She rose and came and stood by his side. 

“You see, I once believed that I was his wife — 
for a whole beautiful month. ... I loved him 
then as my husband. Can one ever forget that?” 

“Oh, my darling child — I suppose one can’t!” 
he cried, thinking of those few short months he 
had spent with his own beloved. 

She bent down and kissed his head. 

“Oh, if I had only told you — consulted you,” 


260 


FINE CLAY 


she said. “I’m not blameless, papa — how can I 
blame Gifford? He was young too.” . . . 

“And it has never entered your head to make 
any compromise?” he suggested diffidently. 

“Compromise?” She knitted her delicate 
brows. 

“About Ambrose . . . and the religion?” 

“Oh, no,” she said. “That is quite impossible. 
Not for any heritage in the world. I’m not — ” 
she smiled, though now there were tears in her 
eyes — “I’m not going to do less for my boy than 
you did for me.” . . . 

He knew that was her final irrevocable an- 
swer. Veronica’s dead hands were holding her 
fast. Yes — he had seen to it that she had the 
faith . . . and this was the result. She was go- 
ing to let it ruin all her worldly prospects, all 
Ambrose’s worldly prospects . . . and he could 
not blame her ... he even felt proud of her as 
she stood there making that brave answer to his 
timidly put question. 

She kept a brave face, but when she went up- 
stairs and put Ambrose back in his cradle she 
broke down completely, and sobbed in desolate 
fashion. It seemed as if that letter, cruel, cold, 
almost insulting, had extinguished the light of 
all the world, plunging it in irremediable gloom, 
hiding the glory of sun and stars. . . . 

He would never come back now. His love was 
dead. Her pain was at first almost physical — 
as if a cold and wounding hand had clutched her 
heart. She was abandoned and deserted. And 
in her agony it seemed to her that she had never 
loved Gifford so passionately as she did then — 


FINE CLAY 


261 


that never had he been so enduringly dear to her. 
That, too, was part of her punishment. 

Tibby said little to Major Pascoe, and nothing 
to Yolande. She read the letter, and told Maxim 
it was what she had always expected. Gifford, 
as Lord Strode’s heir, was not coming back to 
claim a wife and son. who represented such disa- 
bilities, nor had he any intention of introducing 
them at Merrywood Place. She shrugged her 
shoulders. She recognized the new Gifford, and 
she hated him, if possible, more than the old one. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


M r. Hurrell occupied the second floor of a 
grim and narrow house built of brown brick, 
in a street that ran from the Strand to the Em- 
bankment, which was a favorite one with men 
of his profession. His own sanctum was a front 
room, in the middle of which there stood an im- 
mense table. It was, however, none too large 
for the multiplicity of letters, papers, and other 
things which habitually rested upon it. Mr. 
Hurrell invariably sat at this table on the side 
farthest from the door, so that he faced all those 
who entered, and it might even have been sup- 
posed that this formidable piece of furniture 
acted also as an entrenchment between his per- 
son and the possibility of attack. A telephone 
stood close to his left hand; a writing-pad and 
inkstand occupied the place of honor in front of 
him. Papers in dusty accumulation were heaped 
upon other tables, and shelves. Deed-boxes 
stood one above the other in black and gloomy 
columns on the floor, climbing up towards the 
murky soot-engrimed ceiling. In white letters 
on the black japanned sides could be read such 
inscriptions as these: “Executors of the late 
John Smith, Esq.,” “Executors of the late Earl 
of Bettington,” “Executors of the late Lady 
Priscilla Constance Leamington,” and so forth. 

262 


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263 


January hung a bleak pall of yellow fog over 
London. Fog-horns sounded with melancholy 
monotony and shrill persistency from the river 
that flowed silently a few hundreds of yards away. 
The more ear-piercing shrieks of trains also fre- 
quently reached Mr. HurrelFs ears. A steady 
stream of traffic flowed all day down the street — 
the clatter of hoofs, the grinding of wheels, the 
thundering past of great drays. Mr. Hurrell 
disliked noise; his nerves were not as good as 
they used to be. But his heart was triply en- 
cased in iron. Emotions had ceased to sway him. 
He had exploited all forms of human baseness; 
there were few dark labyrinths of the human 
mind with which he was not intimately ac- 
quainted, and he felt that he had at least earned 
the right to be cynical. He was accustomed to 
that terrific and awe-compelling sight — the hu- 
man heart laid bare with all its guile, all its amaz- 
ing perfidy. 

The door — which bore on a brass plate the sim- 
ple legend, Messrs. Hurrell , Hurrell and Morti- 
mer — was opened as he sat there, on that inclem- 
ent morning of January, to admit the son of a 
very old and esteemed client — Mr. Gifford Lum- 
leigh. It had now closed again, and Gifford 
came in and shook hands with Mr. Hurrell, who 
had risen to receive him. 

Mr. Hurrell had held the affairs of Merrywood 
in his hands ever since he had taken his father’s 
place as head of the firm. His father had acted 
for the first Lord Strode, and had drawn up that 
famous will which was now so profoundly agi- 
tating the mind of Gifford, and he had been the 


264 


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highly-trusted and valued friend of that noble- 
man who had risen to political prominence in 
the early days of Queen Victoria’s reign. Mr. 
Hurrell was himself intimately acquainted with 
all the business affairs of the Strode family, but 
he had not much first-hand knowledge of Gif- 
ford. It is true that he had acted for him in 
the case of Lumleigh v. Lumleigh and Harrison, 
which some five years ago had been undefended 
in the Divorce Court. An unfortunate affair 
that, but happily there had been no children of 
that disastrous marriage, and the lady was now 
dead. Neither she nor Mr. Harrison had put 
in any defense, and he had heard they were mar- 
ried directly the decree was made absolute. Mr. 
Hurrell had, however, done a good deal to pacify 
Lord Strode’s wrath on that occasion, and had 
persuaded him not to alter his will and leave 
Gifford’s name out of it altogether, as he had 
threatened to do. He had pleaded youth — wild 
oats — boys will be boys — all the recognized for- 
mulae in defense of Gifford. He even helped to 
effect a formal reconciliation between father and 
son — a measure strongly opposed by Rex, who 
had previously supported Lord Strode in his 
desire to forbid his younger son to enter the 
house. 

Mr. Hurrell wondered why Gifford had come 
to see him so secretly to-day. His letter had 
said that he desired to consult him upon a very 
urgent matter, and that he wished no one to 
know of his visit. It was impossible to suppose 
that he could have plunged into fresh matrimonial 
indiscretions. He had burnt his fingers pretty 


FINE CLAY 


265 


badly over that first affair. He must surely have 
learned a salutary lesson then. 

The lawyer had a winning, professional smile, 
calculated to put the most embarrassed client at 
his ease. 

“Good morning, Mr. Lumleigh. I hope you 
left your father pretty well? It was distressing 
to see him so overwhelmed with grief. A very 
sad affair — such a bright, promising young life!” 

“Oh, he seems to be getting over it all right,” 
said Gifford, nervously glancing round the room 
as if to assure himself that there was no one else 
present. “Executors of the late Honorable 
Reginald Lumleigh” confronted him in sharp 
white letters from one of those black japanned 
boxes. Reginald had left everything dutifully to 
his father, and he and Mr. Hurrell had been the 
executors of the will. His large private fortune 
in default of direct heirs descended automatically 
to Gifford ; he had no control over it, or most cer- 
tainly his brother would have enjoyed no part of 
it. 

“You must find a great change in your own 
circumstances, Mr. Lumleigh. A very pleasant 
change, I may say — had it not been for the lam- 
entable event which led up to it.” He gazed 
sympathetically at Gifford, as if to assure him 
of his ability to see both sides of the medal. 
“Wealth is a great power . . . and to be young 
and rich!” . . . 

“I don’t think it is powerful enough to help me 
in my present muddle, Mr. Hurrell. But be- 
fore I tell you a single word you must make me 
a very solemn promise that during my lifetime, 


266 


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at any rate, you will never reveal to any one what 
I’m going to tell you now. My father and 
mother are in complete ignorance, and they must 
remain so. If you cannot make this promise it 
will be useless for me to proceed!” His face 
hardened. He was growing, Mr. Hurrell 
thought, wonderfully like the Strodes. A diffi- 
cult family . . . with excellent points. 

“Well, of course, if you insist, Mr. Lumleigh. 
And in the event of your death?” 

“You could use your own discretion, but I 
think, under those circumstances, you would be 
almost obliged to speak,” said Gifford. “How- 
ever, you can consider that point later. I want 
legal advice and legal help. I’ve got myself into 
a confounded mess!” 

“Dear, dear!” purred Mr. Hurrell, with a con- 
cerned but at the same time soothing air. “How 
very unfortunate! Let us hope it isn’t so bad 
as you suppose. People, we find, are apt to ex- 
aggerate their difficulties, and we lawyers can 
often do a great deal to minimize them.” . . . 

His curiosity was now quite definitely aroused, 
but he concealed it admirably. 

“I am accustomed,” he went on suavely, “to 
dealing with very difficult and complicated and 
delicate matters — matrimonial and financial and 
even — ” he paused and cleared his throat — “and 
even criminal. ... It is part of our work. And 
I can promise the most inviolate secrecy, Mr. 
Lumleigh.” 

“Very well,” said Gifford, coming to the point 
without delay; “I went to Boulogne in the sum- 
mer of the year before last — and I met a girl 


FINE CLAY 


267 


there. I fell in love with her and asked her to 
marry me. I induced her to keep the whole 
affair a secret from her father. But she came 
over to England in July of the same year, and 
we were married by special licence in a London 
church. She wasn’t of age — she was only eight- 
een. We didn’t tell any one. We lived together 
in Devonshire, and afterwards at Brighton. 
While we were in Brighton we met Mrs. Harri- 
son quite by chance. I had not, of course, told 
my wife anything about her. For one thing, you 
see, she is a Roman Catholic.” . . . 

At this ominous statement Mr. Hurrell pricked 
up his ears, and listened with increasing atten- 
tion. 

“I need not tell you,” continued Gifford, “that 
Catholics do not recognize divorce, and, as a Cath- 
olic, her marriage with a man, who had a divorced 
wife living, wasn’t a marriage at all. When she 
found out about my former wife and the divorce 
she left me at once — that very day — and went 
back to her father. I lost sight of her, although 
after Mrs. Harrison’s death I made every effort 
to find her. And I did find her — last Septem- 
ber, a few weeks before Rex’s death. She was 
living at San Giuliano, a little village not far 
from Porto Fino. In the interval she had borne 
a child — a son. She still denied that she was my 
wife, though she expressed her willingness to 
marry me if I would consent to her continuing 
to bring up the child in the Catholic faith. He 
had been baptized by the priest. But she re- 
fused to marry me under any other conditions.” 

“Dear, dear! how very unfortunate!” purred 


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Mr. Hurrell, whose shrewd mind had at once 
grasped every possibility of this tangled maze. 

“Well, I want to know if I’m married or not! 
I want to know if Ambrose is my legitimate heir. 
You’re a lawyer — you ought to know these 
things !” 

“Oh, I couldn’t give you an answer straight 
off without knowing a great many more details. 
Her being under age — the absence of any domi- 
cile in England . . . the marriage being in her 
eyes invalid — all these things might make it easy 
for you to procure an annulment of the mar- 
riage.” . . . 

“But annulling it won’t affect the boy,” said 
Gifford; “and she won’t give him up. As a 
Catholic, he cannot, of course, succeed to the 
property. The only thing, as far as I can see, 
is to establish the invalidity of the marriage and 
the consequent illegitimacy of the child. Or,” 
and now his gray eyes were fastened upon Mr. 
Hurrell with a very strange and almost fierce 
expression, as of a man about to do something 
deliberately cruel, “or to take Ambrose away 
from her and bring him up as I choose!” 

“Now let us take the question of annulling the 
marriage,” said the lawyer. “Would she be 
likely to oppose such proceedings?” 

“Not she. She’s only mad to have the boy 1” 

“And you mean to tell me that you have of- 
fered to legalize the tie from her point of view, 
and that she has refused on account of the re- 
ligious question?” said Mr. Hurrell in a slightly 
amazed tone. 

“That’s what it comes to practically. I was 


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269 


mad to marry her under any conditions. I was 
just going to write the letter and agree to her 
terms — for I was a fool about her, Mr. Hurrell — 
when the telegram came from my father an- 
nouncing Rex’s death.” 

“Most providential,” murmured Mr. Hurrell. 
“And I take it his lordship is unaware of the ex- 
istence of this lady?” 

“He only knows that I wanted to marry her 
when I first came home from Boulogne. We 
had an awful row about it, and I left home. But 
I never told him that I had married her, nor that 
she was a Catholic.” 

“Nothing against her, of course? Perhaps not 
quite of your own class?” inquired Mr. Hurrell. 

“She is the most beautiful and the best woman 
in the world,” said Gifford warmly; “of course, 
she is a lady. Her father is not well off, a re- 
tired officer— a bit of a gambler, and too fond 
of absinthe, between ourselves. But there is 
nothing against her — nothing to prevent her from 
taking her place at Merrywood as my wife — the 
loveliest woman who has ever set foot within its 
doors !” 

“A clandestine marriage and a ready-made 
son,” murmured Mr. Hurrell, as if he were mus- 
ing aloud ; “it would certainly be a bit of a shock 
for his lordship if it came to his ears ! And then 
the religion! A very unfortunate affair, Mr. 
Lumleigh. But never fear — we’ll steer you 
through all right. No danger of any action on 
her part, I presume?” 

“Oh, not from her certainly. But I don’t 
know much about the father, and I don’t like 


270 


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what I’ve seen of him. Rather a disagreeable 
and disreputable-looking person.” 

“But you haven’t made one thing quite clear 
to me,” said Mr. Hurrell. “Do you want to get 
rid of her and the boy?” 

Gifford was silent for a moment, and his eyes 
were fixed on the floor. At last he said with an 
effort: 

“If it hadn’t been for Rex’s death I intended 
to marry her on her own conditions, and let her 
bring up the boy, and any other children we 
might have had, just as she pleased. But now I 
don’t see my way to do this. I only want, if pos- 
sible, to claim the boy and to take him away from 
her — if he proves to be legitimate. And if not, 
I can of course think about marrying. My 
father is naturally very anxious for me to marry. 
He hasn’t begun to put on any pressure so far, 
but he’s hinted at it more than once.” 

“But you made promises when you married 
her? You were married, I suppose, in a Catho- 
lic church?” 

“Yes — I signed a paper. But I told the 
priest a lie. I told him I was unmarried, and 
said I was the son of John Lumleigh, without 
mentioning my father’s title. Now do you think 
I’ve got a right to my son?” 

“A legal right certainly, should the marriage 
prove to be entirely in order. But it is a very 
nice point of law. . . . This lady evidently holds 
very strong views on the subject of religion, and 
might possibly fight for the possession of her 
boy.” 

“Oh, yes — she would do that,” said Gifford; 


FINE CLAY 


271 


“it might even have to be done secretly. But if 
he is my son, I mean to have him, Mr. Hurrell!” 

He set his square Strode jaw. Then he rose 
to his feet. 

“You must find a way out of the impasse , Mr. 
Hurrell,” he. said. “I am in my father's good 
books at present, and I don’t want to do anything 
to disturb the peace again. I’ve let the matter 
slide already for nearly three months. And I’ve 
had one pretty disagreeable letter from her 
father.” 

“But I think I can tell you one thing,” said 
Mr. Hurrell, “and that is, if there is no actual 
flaw in the marriage — which I very much doubt 
— you are married, and this child is your son and 
heir. I should say you have come to me too late, 
Mr. Lumleigh. You can’t get rid of your wife 
without a good deal of publicity. And we 
should, in any case, have a great deal of trouble 
in obtaining possession of your son. It is a very 
unusual case, and I hope you will forgive my 
saying it is a singularly unpleasant one. There 
are penalties attached to the making of such 
false representations as you seem to have made. 
It might militate very seriously against your 
eventually making such a marriage as would sat- 
isfy his lordship’s very natural ambition, espe- 
cially as this son, if he lives, must succeed to the 
title. Our English marriage laws have come 
into collision with Rome on more than one occa- 
sion, and never with very satisfactory results to 
us. Rome stands in the way of all progress, and 
influences the other churches more strongly than 
they would ever admit, and I wish the whole 


272 


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world could see it in the same light as we see it. 
The wonder is that so many people can be found 
to submit to a jurisdiction that interferes not 
only with their civil rights, but with their natural 
claim to happiness!” 

“Oh, I’m not afraid of the Vatican,” said Gif- 
ford; “it is quite a back number. Who ever 
reads its Encyclicals, I should like to know? It 
can’t keep me from my son — if he is my legiti- 
mate son !” 

“That is a singularly unprincipled young 
man,” thought Mr. Hurrell, when the door had 
at last closed upon Gifford Lumleigh, “and I 
sincerely pity the girl, whoever she is. Still, we 
cannot have the Vatican telling an Englishman 
what religion his son is to be brought up in, or 
saying a legal marriage isn’t a marriage at all. 
It is interfering with the liberty of the subject — 
a very sacred thing, and one about which an 
Englishman may be permitted to feel very 
strongly! But I’m afraid he thoroughly de- 
ceived her and the priest too, in representing him- 
self to be an unmarried man. That won’t look 
very nice for Lord Strode’s son when it gets into 
the papers.” 


CHAPTER XXV 


A fter his interview with Mr. Hurrell Gifford 
did not immediately return to Merrywood, 
as had been his original intention. Instead, he 
left town by the night express on his way to 
Genoa. 

This was a sudden decision. He felt that it 
was absolutely necessary to see Yolande again 
and make a final endeavor to bring her to reason. 
In his heart he still hoped that she would yield, 
and that their marriage might take place. He 
was angry with her on account of her obstinacy, 
but he loved her still, and the wish to see her 
again was very strong. 

If only things could be amicably arranged on a 
basis agreeable to his own family, there seemed 
yet every prospect of happiness for himself and 
Yolande. But he had very little hope of com- 
bating that innate religious obstinacy of hers. 
It was a thing too deeply engrafted in her mind. 
It had been strong enough to make her separate 
herself from him when apparently their happi- 
ness was at its height. It was strong because it 
was also hereditary. And it perplexed him the 
more because she was not — to outward appear- 
ance — at all devote, 

Mr. Hurrell had proved slightly less sympa- 
thetic than he had expected. Evidently he had 

273 


274 


FINE CLAY 


regarded him as something of a fool, for having 
after one sharp experience repeated an insensate 
blunder, and possibly as something of a knave for 
wishing to repudiate the woman who failed to fit 
in to his present position. 

He had not written as yet to prepare Yolande 
for his coming. He would wire from Genoa. 
He thought she would not refuse to see him when 
he had arrived in Italy and was so near. But on 
reaching Genoa late on the evening of a cold 
January day he went to an hotel near the sta- 
tion, and postponed telegraphing until the next 
morning. He was tired after his journey, and 
the long night in the train which seemed to have 
shaken and jolted him more than usual. 

After all, where was the use of telling her be- 
forehand? He would go out to San Giuliano 
by the first train he could catch, and take his 
chance. No further communication had passed 
between them, and his letter to Major Pascoe 
had remained unanswered. 

The weather was very bad. A strong wind 
was blowing from the sea, cold and fierce squalls 
of rain swept through the streets, and Gifford 
shivered as he walked across to the station. It 
was only a degree less cold and gloomy than the 
London he had left. Gifford, who was sensitive 
to weather and disliked the cold intensely, felt 
that the stormy skies and bleak angry rain were 
unpropitious auguries for the success of his pres- 
ent expedition. 

It was still raining when he descended from 
the train at San Giuliano, and took a carriage up 
to the villa. He passed the harbor where a num- 


FINE CLAY 


275 


ber of fishing-boats had taken refuge from last 
night’s storm; then he came in sight of the little 
white town, lying amid its nest of gray olive- 
trees, above which the slender campanile of the 
church was thrust against a background of green 
hill and leafless woods. The great promontory 
of Porto Fino was almost blotted from view by 
the dense masses of cloud that swept over it. 
The storm showed no sign of abating when the 
carriage stopped before the high iron gates of the 
Villa Viola. 

There was no one in the loggia, and when he 
rang the bell it seemed to clang mournfully as if 
the house were empty. It was almost a relief to 
see the door open and Miss Tibbit’s form stand- 
ing there, its stout outline in bold relief against 
the white-washed wall of the vestibule. 

“Is ... is Yolande in?” he said. The pres- 
ence of Miss Tibbit made him feel nervous. He 
felt that she did not wish to admit him. 

“Yes — she’s in,” said Susan Tibbit, and now 
the prim governess was severely in the ascendant. 
Many of her old pupils would have quailed be- 
fore the look she now bestowed upon Gifford 
Lumleigh, knowing that it was the harbinger of 
condign punishment. “I don’t know if you can 
see her. She has been ill, and she is still very anx- 
ious about the baby.” 

“May I see Major Pascoe, then?” he said al- 
most humbly. 

The rain was still beating rather heavily upon 
him ; his teeth chattered, but short of pushing past 
her he could not enter the house she was guard- 
ing. 


276 FINE CLAY 

“If you wait inside I’ll go and ask him,” she 
said. 

He was still standing there on the mat, not 
venturing to come a step farther. She pointed 
to a chair. “Won’t you sit down?” 

Gilford sat there waiting. Above, he could 
hear a faint cry stealing through the house — the 
wail of a very weak baby. The sound stirred 
him. He longed to rush upstairs to the nursery, 
and hold his son in his arms, and kiss Yolande. 
How much longer was Miss Tibbit going to keep 
him waiting there in this anguish of suspense ? 

He guessed that she would be in no hurry to 
return. She was perhaps rejoicing to feel that 
for once she had her victim securely empaled. 
He had always been aware of her tacit hostility ; 
she had never been at great pains to hide it from 
him. While he was thus musing a step sounded 
in the passage, and Major Pascoe appeared. 

“I didn’t know we were to have the pleasure of 
seeing you here to-day, Mr. Lumleigh,” he said, 
with a cold and formal politeness; “it is not the 
most convenient moment you could have chosen. 
Ambrose is very ill. He had hardly got over the 
diphtheria when he had a sharp touch of pleurisy. 
And well, the fact is — an operation was per- 
formed yesterday to relieve the lung . . . and 
his condition is not at all satisfactory.” 

The news struck Gifford like a sudden blow. 

“I am sorry . . .” he stammered. ... “I am 
very sorry. ... I meant to let you know . . . 
but it was a sudden idea. It was the first oppor- 
tunity I had had of leaving home, so I took my 


FINE CLAY 277 

chance. I got to Genoa last night, and came 
straight on this morning.” 

“Indeed?” said Major Pascoe. His tone was 
indescribably chilling. “But I’m afraid you will 
not be able to see Yolande to-day. She is very 
tired and upset, poor child. I shall not tell her 
you are here.” 

His blue eyes were fixed upon Gifford with a 
searching look. They seemed to say: “We 
don’t want you — you have no right here with 
your wife and child.” . . . Gifford flinched un- 
der it. 

“Please let me see her. Major Pascoe. Or, 
at least, tell her I’m here ... let her choose if 
she will see me or not !” 

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” said Maxim 
firmly; “I’m sure that it would still further up- 
set her to know that you were here. You should 
have come a month ago — when I first wrote to 
you.” 

“I couldn’t come — I thought I’d made that 
quite clear . . .” said Gifford. 

Upstairs he could still hear that faint moaning 
wail ... it seemed to pierce his heart. . . . 

“I think I must ask you not to come again for 
a few days. When Ambrose is out of danger I 
will find out whether Yolande wishes to see you.” 
He spoke in a tone of cold formality. 

“Is he in any danger?” said Gifford. 

“Yes — he is in considerable danger.” Maxim 
Pascoe consulted his watch. “I am due up there 
now,” he said. “You will be at the hotel for the 
present, I suppose? I will write to you there.” 


278 


FINE CLAY 


Rather reluctantly he held out his hand. Gifford 
felt there was no course open to him but to go 
away. Yet — how intolerable that this man 
should have the power and right to keep him from 
the side of his dying son. He made one more 
effort. 

“You really mean this?” he said. “You mean 
that I’m to go without seeing Yolande? With- 
out her even knowing that I’m here? I’m to go, 
when my son is dying?” His voice broke, and 
there were tears of passion as well as grief on his 
black lashes. 

“Yes — I am afraid I do mean that,” said 
Maxim inexorably. “You have forfeited all 
right you may ever have had to be with Yolande 
— to comfort her.” . . . He stepped past Gif- 
ford and opened the door. A storm of wind and 
rain swept into the hall, overturning a pot of 
freesias. It fell to the ground with a little crash. 

And with that sound echoing in his ears Gif- 
ford passed through the open door of the Villa 
Viola, and heard the Major close it gently behind 
him. He hurried down the path, bowing his 
head to the gale. 

Gifford almost broke down under the stress of 
this new anxiety. His desire to see Yolande be- 
came an all-absorbing obsession; he could think 
of nothing else. All that day he wondered how 
Ambrose was, whether he was holding his own, 
how matters were going to end. In spite of the 
weather he went out for a long walk ; to remain 
in the hotel was impossible. It was almost 
empty, except for a German couple; there was 


FINE CLAY 


279 


nothing to do, nothing to read. And the wind 
shook the windows violently, shrieking and wail- 
ing over land and sea like an unquiet spirit. 
How different from those lovely golden autumn 
days he had spent there only a few short months 
ago. Then his happiness had been within reach 
— what a fool he had been not to pluck the fruit 
that was ready to his hand! To go home — to 
make a clean breast of it — to face the music — 
how much easier that would have been than this 
compulsory exile from Yolande’s beloved pres- 
ence. He had come here on purpose to offer her 
terms which he knew beforehand that she would 
not accept; he had come prepared to put an end 
to all things between them unless she would give 
way to his will; he had intended to torture her 
with the threat of removing her child from her 
keeping. When he remembered this his face 
flamed. He knew, far better than Major Pas- 
coe did, how thoroughly he had deserved all the 
pain and humiliation to which he had been sub- 
jected on arrival at the Villa Viola. Yes — he 
had forfeited all right to comfort his wife — to be 
with her in her new and terrible anxiety — and the 
thought of the torment she was undergoing, not 
a mile away, still further increased the sense of 
bitter shame which the Major’s words had so 
pitilessly evoked. He could not sleep that night. 
He wondered how soon Major Pascoe would 
write to him. He knew that he would be in no 
hurry to do so. And he dared not risk a second 
visit to the villa even to inquire for Ambrose. 

The morning was fine; the wind had dropped 
and the sun was shining. Porto Fino had 


280 


FINE CLAY 


emerged from the enveloping masses of cloud, 
and stood clearly silhouetted against a deep blue 
sky. Gifford began to feel as if he were really 
in Italy. The sunshine was invigorating. But 
he did not go out. All the morning he waited, 
hoping that some news might reach him. But no 
letter came. If he had ever tortured Yolande by 
his own silence, she was being slowly avenged 
now for all the pain she had endured. 

Ambrose had a better night, and even Yolande 
had a little rest, satisfied that he was at least hold- 
ing his own. In the morning her father told her 
of Gifford’s visit on the preceding day. She 
flushed a little, and at first said nothing. But 
later she came to him and said in a puzzled tone : 

“Why do you think he has come now?” 

“He didn’t say,” replied Maxim, “and I didn’t 
ask him.” 

“Do you think I ought to see him?” 

“You must please yourself. I suppose you 
will have to do so, sooner or later.” 

She paused, and her delicate dark brows were 
knitted in a frown. 

“I think you had better write and ask him to 
come; I think I had better see him,” she said. 

Major Pascoe shrugged his shoulders. Such 
an interview could only be productive of further 
pain to her, of that he felt quite sure. It was 
astonishing that her love for him should still sur- 
vive. Even the knowledge that he was in San 
Giuliano had put color into her pale cheeks, and 
light into her heavy, sleepless eyes. She looked 
almost like a young girl. Yes, Gifford had still 


FINE CLAY 


281 


the power to call back that look of youth and 
happiness into her face. 

Grudgingly he sat down and wrote the letter, 
asking Gifford to come and dine that night. It 
was Yolande who persuaded him to this act of 
hospitality. “And I’m obliged to be away from 
Ambrose when we are dining, in any case,” she 
added. She spared but a few moments in those 
days away from her beloved child — only just 
what were necessary in which to eat, and snatch 
a little sleep. During the crisis of his illness she 
had scarcely tasted food, and had never gone to 
bed. 

She was alone in the drawing-room when Gif- 
ford came. She rose and came towards him, a 
frail, changed figure, infinitely sad. The sight 
of him melted her. She suffered him to take her 
in his arms ; she was very still while he kissed her, 
murmuring words of tenderness and love. She 
could forgive him now, and she could love him 
though she had no longer any illusions about him. 
And those long hours of waiting, the frustration, 
even though only temporary, of his desire to see 
her again had revived his curious, almost episodic, 
passion for her which had been dying for want 
of sustenance. How could he say the things he 
had come to say? She looked so ill, so helpless, 
so sad, that it would have been wanton cruelty to 
add in any way to the misery of her lot. As he 
held her closely he told himself that she was 
more to him than anything else in the world — 
that for her sake he would exile himself from 
Merrywood, and forfeit the new-found esteem of 
his parents ... he would do all that she wished, 


282 


FINE CLAY 


so that only he might claim her as his wife. “Yo- 
lande . . . Yolande . . . my beloved . . .” he 
said. 

“Oh, Gifford— I have wanted you” — Her 
voice was like music with its pretty touch of for- 
eign accent. “I have been through such a dread- 
ful time with poor little Ambrose. Papa told 
you perhaps that he had an operation. Poor 
little baby! But he is better to-day, and the 
doctor hopes that he is going to pull through.” 

“Dear heart,” he said; “you look as if you 
hadn’t slept for weeks! And you have been ill 
yourself. What must you think of me?” His 
remorse was keen; self-reproach was gnawing 
him. 

“Oh, but I understood so well, Gifford,” she 
said earnestly, “I understood — but papa and 
Tibby do not see things in the same light. Your 
poor parents were in such grief — of course you 
could not be selfish and burden them with your 
own troubles. If papa had been in such grief I 
should not have said anything to worry him, so 
you see I understand. And I felt that you would 
come as soon as you could — with prudence.” . . . 

How beautiful she was — how good — how un- 
suspecting. 

“Yolande . . . my dearest dear ... I ought 
to have come long ago. . . . But I am glad you 
are not angry.” . . . He held her almost fiercely, 
kissing her. “You do love me still, don’t you? 
For I love you, beloved, more than ever.” 

“Yes — I love you, Gifford,” she said simply. 
“I have never changed. I think I am too old to 


FINE CLAY 


283 


change now. Why, I am a great age — I shall 
soon be twenty years old!” 

“Twenty!” he said; “why, you are only a baby, 
dear Yolande!” 

“Am I?” she said. “I feel very old. Perhaps 
it is because I have a baby of my own.” . . . 

Twenty . . . and therefore too old to change. 
There was something to him almost humorous in 
this view of the case — humorous if it had not also 
been so infinitely pathetic. . . . 

They had little time for further conversation, 
for Major Pascoe and Miss Tibbit joined them 
soon afterwards. Dinner was a very brief meal, 
for Yolande could not spare much more time 
away from Ambrose. At intervals word was 
brought to her from the nursery, telling her that 
he was still asleep, had awakened and taken nour- 
ishment, and so forth. It was a very solemn 
little party, and Gifford felt extremely uncom- 
fortable the whole time. While Yolande still be- 
lieved in him and still loved him, since now she 
considered herself too old to change — he was per- 
fectly aware that her good opinion was not shared 
either by Major Pascoe or Tibby. When the 
meal came to an end Yolande rose. 

“I am going up to the nursery,” she said to 
Gifford half timidly, “would you like to come a 
moment before you go?” 

“Yes, I should like to see him,” he said, and 
followed her. They went up the narrow flight 
of stairs, and down the long glazed loggia that 
led to the nursery. A big wood fire was blazing 
on the hearth, giving forth an aromatic smoke 


284 


FINE CLAY 


which hung haze-like in the room. Ambrose’s 
little cot was drawn up close to the fire. There 
was a bed near it where Yolande had slept since 
his illness. A nun was sitting there, watching the 
child as he lay asleep. 

Gifford knelt down beside the crib and gently 
uncovered the little face. Ambrose was scarcely 
less changed than his mother. He was thin al- 
most to emaciation ; a hard, hectic flush burned in 
his cheeks; the hand that Gifford touched with 
such tenderness was fiery hot, with the fever that 
seemed to be consuming him. The sick child, 
hovering on the borderland between life and 
death, lying there unconscious of the anxiety he 
was stirring in their hearts, seemed to Gifford a 
thing infinitely precious. A sound like a sob 
broke from him. Was he to set aside these ties, 
at once so near and so dear? . . . How could he 
ever have planned to take Ambrose away from 
his mother? How could he break these most in- 
timate bonds that held him chained and fettered 
with love? He rose to his feet, and the face that 
was turned to Yolande was grave and pale. 

“You must pray for him, Gifford . . .” she 
said. “I . . . couldn’t bear to lose him. He is 
so precious to me.” . . . 

“And for his sake, Yolande — you must come 
back to me,” he said. “When will you come, be- 
loved?” He looked down into her eyes. 

“Whenever you wish,” she said ; “whenever you 
feel able to promise . . . the things I have asked 
you to promise.” . . . 

He left her, telling himself that nothing should 
keep them apart any more. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


Touring the days that followed Gifford spent 

' long hours in the room of his little sick son. 
Indeed, he took his place there so simply that it 
seemed to Yolande almost natural that he should 
he there, sharing her anxiety and helping her in 
this silent intimate way. It seemed to bring them 
nearer together, and she was able to feel that 
sense of tranquil happiness which his mere pres- 
ence had been able to give her in the old days. 

It was hardly the time to discuss plans for the 
future, but the fact of his remaining at the Villa 
Viola seemed to be proof of his intention to ac- 
cept the terms and conditions offered by Yo- 
lande, and even Major Pascoe assumed a slightly 
more friendly attitude towards him. Without 
him Yolande would certainly never be happy; she 
had fretted herself to a shadow all these months 
of his absence; it was useless to put any further 
obstacles in the way. The marriage would be a 
disastrous one for Gifford, and he would certainly 
have to face a complete rupture with his parents. 
But apparently he loved Yolande sufficiently to 
make the sacrifice. 

In reality Gifford was very far from happy, 
very far from feeling at ease. Those months at 
Merrywood had taught him, as nothing else could 
have "done, the duties and responsibilities of his 

285 


286 


FINE CLAY 


new position. Nor could it be denied that he en- 
joyed that position, with its importance, its at- 
mosphere of wealth and luxury. And he had 
come to San Giuliano with the deliberate purpose 
of compelling Yolande to yield to his demands 
respecting Ambrose’s religion, and in the event 
of her ultimate refusal, he had resolved to remove 
the boy from his mother’s custody, take him back 
to Merrywood, and let her take what steps she 
chose to regain possession of him, or dissolve the 
marriage. This was the program which the very 
sight of her had so promptly frustrated. He 
loved her far too well to inflict such a sorrow upon 
her. He could not separate mother and child. 
Rather than that he would go on living this double 
life, never telling his parents, and coming some- 
times at long intervals to see Yolande and the 
boy. ... 

Ambrose improved daily; with the splendid vi- 
tality which so often characterizes even frail and 
delicate children he fought his way back to life. 
And as the warmer days came he regained 
strength. Gifford had been for nearly a month 
at San Giuliano, and already the almond-blos- 
som was showing its drifts of pale pink foam, and 
the gorse was covering the hills with golden 
flame. On tranquil days the sea was ethereally 
blue, and the soft lines of pansy-colored hills were 
tenderly painted against the sky of pure sap- 
phire. 

But he could not prolong his stay forever. 
Already his absence was causing comment at 
Merrywood. Was he slipping back into the old 
ways? Lord Strode, remembering that frozen 


FINE CLAY 


287 


reticence, wondered if, after all, there were hid- 
den things in Gifford’s life — things of which he 
himself knew nothing? Gifford’s letters told 
him little. They were always posted in Genoa, 
for he did not wish inquiries to be made for him 
at San Giuliano. If he could not go himself to 
post them, he sent a messenger. His environ- 
ment had always had power to influence him, and 
he was able to put all thoughts of Merrywood 
aside, just as in the past three months he had put 
aside all thoughts of Yolande, hardening his 
heart against her if the memory of her had become 
too insistent and obtrusive. 

“I wish,” she said one day, “that you could 
have been here for Ambrose’s birthday. He will 
be a year old in April.” 

“But this is only the first of March,” he said, 
“and I’m due back at home as it is.” 

They were sitting in the loggia, for the day was 
warm and very still. Already the deep rose- 
pink of the peach-blossom was beginning to show 
its tender blots of color among the olive-trees. 
The buds on the vines were swelling fast, and 
looked as if they would soon burst their fragile 
covering of brown glaze. 

“Yolande,” he said, “I wish I had not to go 
away. I should like to stay here forever. . . . 
But I have many duties now that call me home.” 

“But you will write to me, Gifford,” she said, 
“and that will help* to make the time pass more 
quickly. And then perhaps you will find time 
to come and see us this summer. I hope Am- 
brose will be walking about by then.” . . . She 
looked tenderly at the sleeping Ambrose. 


288 


FINE CLAY 


“My darling,” he said, “haven’t you seen that 
I’ve come to the cross-roads — and that I have to 
choose between you and my own people? There 
is only one way in which we can hope to propitiate 
them, and you have always refused to consider it. 
Yet it is a little thing, and all our happiness de- 
pends upon it. Can you not look at it reason- 
ably, Yolande, and help me to make everything 
quite smooth?” He looked at her wistfully. 
She was silent. 

“For his sake” — Gifford pointed to the little 
dark head — “and for mine — perhaps a little for 
your own . . . won’t you make the sacrifice, Yo- 
lande? Surely it is not such a difficult thing? 
If you will only give in about Ambrose’s religion, 
the rest will be quite easy. My father and 
mother would love their little grandson . . . and 
you. . . . No one could help loving you.” . . . 

“What you ask is impossible,” she said. “My 
child must be a Catholic.” 

Gifford looked at her wearily. 

“But I love you dear,” he said. “I can’t live 
without you. You are teaching me that more 
and more every day. You are the one woman in 
the world for me.” 

She said: “It isn’t that I don’t love you, Gif- 
ford. I have always loved you. If it is hard for 
you, believe it is also very hard for me. But I 
must think of Ambrose.” . . . 

“He would never know,” said Gifford; “and 
try as I can, Yolande, I do not see how I am to 
marry you, and take you back to Merrywood and 
introduce them to a Catholic grandson. Amd 
they are getting old, and I can’t be cruel as I used 


FINE CLAY 


289 


to be — they have been so broken-hearted over 
losing Rex.” . . . 

She was very white, but her voice was steady as 
she answered: 

“Gifford — I don’t want to keep you back from 
your duty. But I cannot marry you under those 
conditions. I must bring up my boy as a Catho- 
lic. I’d rather he were a Catholic and name- 
less.” . . . She looked at him pitifully. 

“He can never be nameless,” said Gifford; “he 
is my son!” 

“But if we agreed to part,” she said quietly, “I 
should keep him in ignorance of his father.” . . . 

“In ignorance?” 

“I mean when we have settled definitely what 
we are going to do, and if you decide in this way, 
I should not see you,” she answered. 

“Do you mean that, Yolande? That you 
wouldn’t let me come here when I wanted to — to 
see you — to see my son?” 

“Yes,” she said; “I have felt this time more 
than ever that I could not go on letting you 
come.” 

So he was to be exiled eternally from her be- 
loved presence. 

“You couldn’t be so cruel, Yolande. Why, it 
is all I should have to live for.” 

“You would have chosen the other things in 
preference,” she reminded him. “And your com- 
ing unsettles me. In a little while I should per- 
haps forget some of the pain. I should devote 
myself entirely to Ambrose and papa. Dear 
Tibby, too, is getting old. I have many duties 
you see, Gifford.” 


290 


FINE CLAY 


“Do you really mean this?” he asked again. 

“Yes, Gifford. I have found this last separa- 
tion very difficult to bear. So we must make an 
end of it, one way or the other. I must be your 
wife — or I must never see you. Already you 
have eaten up almost two whole years of my life. 
Y ou have made me suffer very much. I am not 
going to let you spoil all my years ... all my 
life.” . . . 

His face hardened. So that was her plan — her 
merciless, pitiless and cruel plan. There were to 
be no half measures. No stealing away from 
Merrywood whenever he had the chance of spend- 
ing a few weeks within reach of her, in this coun- 
try of sun and light and laughing blue sea, no 
watching the growing up of Ambrose; all this 
was to form no part of the future. He was to 
go away and never see her again. . . . 

“You can’t do that, Yolande,” he said. “Am- 
brose is my son. I have a right to see him. And 
you must not forget that you are still my wife.” 

She flashed back at him: “I was never your 
wife. Once I thought the shame would kill me! 
Now I am glad, because it gives me my son !” 

“But I tell you the boy is mine! I’ve full 
rights. He is my heir — the heir to Merrywood. 
I can take him away from you!” 

She felt suddenly cold and sick with fear. 

“You can’t do that,” she said; “why, he’s all 
mine, Gifford. You didn’t even know he was in 
the world till he was six months old. I nearly 
died when he was born — did you care then?” 

She took Ambrose, who had just awakened, 
from his perambulator, and held him so closely as 


FINE CLAY 


291 


if she almost feared that Gifford would seize him 
there and then and carry him away. Her eyes 
were wide with horror. He watched her with 
growing jealousy. 

“He is more to you than I am?” he said, with a 
touch of bitterness. 

“I can’t say,” she said desperately; “once you 
were all my world. But I’m thinking of his soul. 
Of what I owe to God in return for him. Do 
you understand?” 

“Yolande — you forget he is mine too.” . . . 

“No, I don’t forget. I’m bewildered now, 
Gifford. I don’t understand. There doesn’t 
seem to be any way out. In a sense he is yours, 
I suppose, but for so long he was only mine — in 
the days when I believed that I should never see 
you again.” 

“You are saying cruel things to me,” he said. 
“I know I am worthless. Ask my father — he 
would tell you the same thing. But I did love 
you. That part of me is true. And I want you 
to be my wife. I’m sorry that I cannot marry 
you under your own conditions. Last year I 
would gladly have done so. But Rex’s death 
has changed everything. I have other duties — 
I can’t neglect them. Duties to my parents — to 
the property. You must see that I can’t have 
my children brought up in your faith. It isn’t 
that I’ve got a single prejudice against it, be- 
cause I haven’t. I think it’s the most beautiful 
religion in the world. But you are a sensible 
woman, you must distinguish between what is 
possible and what is impossible! He is the heir, 
and you must think of him.” 


292 


FINE CLAY 


“I am thinking of him,” said Yolande. 

“Then don’t try and make vicarious sacri- 
fices. The boy himself will be the first to thank 
you when he grows up!” 

She quoted almost beneath her breath: 

“ ‘What shall it profit a man if he gain the 
whole world — and suffer the loss of his soul?’ ” 

There was no sign of wavering in the dark 
eyes, the compressed lips. 

“And I count for nothing!” His mirthless 
laughter echoed drearily. “Well, I shall fulfil 
my destiny, Yolande, and go down to hell — and 
you will have helped to push me over the preci- 
pice with your petty shibboleths and counsels of 
perfection, that are only fit for nuns, not for men 
and women of the world !” 

“I am not a woman of the world, Gifford. 
And I did a wicked thing in the eyes of my 
Church, though I acted in ignorance. But I can 
expiate it. And, above all, I can bring up my 
boy to be a good Catholic, I can give him his 
heritage of faith. And I shall teach him that it 
is a greater inheritance than anything else the 
world can offer him.” 

She rose and carried Ambrose into the house. 
Gifford remained sitting there alone. He could 
see no way out. Both ways were beset with 
obstacles and difficulties which he could not over- 
pass. But he realized that if he chose Merry- 
wood and all that it stood for, he should never 
again see Yolande; he should never again hear 
her voice. And this was the price he would have 
to pay. . . . 


CHAPTER XXVII 


TD ather more than a year later, when Am- 
brose Lumleigh had just passed his second 
birthday, Mr. Prendergast went to San Giuliano 
to pay another visit to Major Pascoe. Spring 
had come early, and in that sheltered part of the 
Italian coast it seemed almost as if summer had 
already arrived. Wistaria and Banksian roses 
were in full bloom at the little villa which seemed 
to be set in a perfect bower of fragrant blossom. 
The vines showed their curly golden shoots, and 
the chestnut woods were bright with emerald ver- 
dure. 

Nothing of much importance had occurred to 
the little group at the Villa Viola since Gifford’s 
departure the year before. He had left on the 
morning following his conversation with Yo- 
lande, and on all sides his departure had been re- 
garded as final. She had begged him not to 
write and not to come back. And so far he had 
obeyed. He had gone back to Merrywood, and 
had since vouchsafed no sign. 

Ambrose had greatly improved in health. He 
was now an almost sturdy little boy, though still 
small for his age. He was extremely active and 
restless and ran about the whole day. He was 
not a pretty child, but his somber dark eyes made 
him rather attractive-looking. He could chat- 
ter volubly in English and Italian, but in ap- 


294 FINE CLAY 

pearance he was much more Italian than Eng- 
lish. 

Mr. Prendergast was a little, old white-haired 
man, with a small chiselled face and kind eyes. 
He was always welcome, and on this occasion he 
had invited himself, for he desired to offer 
counsel and advice to Major Pascoe and Yo- 
lande. 

Outwardly they were little changed. Major 
Pascoe was somewhat more gray, but the quiet 
regular life suited him, and he had been free of 
late from heart attacks. Yolande was still the 
same sweet and beautiful woman, perhaps a lit- 
tle more silent, a little more grave. She was 
completely wrapped up in Ambrose, while old 
Tibby’s devotion continued to lavish itself upon 
both mother and son. Miss Tibbit was not the 
kind of person who changes greatly. A little 
stouter — a little heavier, but still kind, competent 
and vigilant. She was quite ready to undertake 
the task of instructing Ambrose when he should 
arrive at an age for lessons. Even now he knew 
his letters, and could stumble through Our Father 
and Hail Mary . Children, she said, could learn 
to pray as soon as they could speak. He could 
say his grace and cross himself, and when they 
walked as far as the village, Tibby always took 
him into the church and taught him to genuflect 
to the Blessed Sacrament. She still governed 
the little household to whom she was so dear. 
More than eleven years had passed since she had 
first established herself with them in the Pension 
Constantine. 


FINE CLAY 


295 


Mr. Prendergast arrived in time for the mid- 
day dejeuner . It was not till about an hour 
later that he found himself alone with Major 
Pascoe, in the room which for so long had served 
him as a den. 

He lit a cigarette, the major his pipe. They 
smoked for some minutes in silence. Then Mr. 
Prendergast cleared his throat and said: “Yo- 
lande isn’t looking at all strong. Do you think 
she needs a more bracing climate?” 

“She always dislikes the thought of leaving 
this place,” said the Major. “And we cannot af- 
ford very much in the way of trips and change. 
You see, we have the villa rent free, and Tibby’s 
a wonderful manager. I don’t know how she 
does it.” 

“Mr. Lumleigh, of course, contributes noth- 
ing?” said Mr. Prendergast. 

“He wanted to — he wrote to me about it once, 
just as he was leaving last year. But Yolande 
simply wouldn’t hear of it — wouldn’t in any way 
recognize his claim.” He paused a moment and 
then continued: “She’s fretting her heart out 
over the whole thing, Prendergast — it’s useless 
to deny it. She was really very fond of Lum- 
leigh, and she has felt his desertion, for that is 
what it amounts to, very much. His refusal, as 
it were, to put things square. But Ambrose’s 
religion was the crux — that is where the negotia- 
tions broke down. She won’t give in — and he 
won’t give in. She is like her dear mother — soft 
as velvet till you are up against the bedrock of it 
all, which is her religion. Wonderful thing — the 


296 


FINE CLAY 


Catholic Faith, Prendergast! The strength it 
gives to quite weak people! I wish I’d been 
brought up in it — I should have been a better 
man and a better father. But then, you see, I 
know what it has done both for Veronica and 
Yolande — and what I hope it may also do for the 
dear little chap!” 

Mr. Prendergast’s attitude to religion in gen- 
eral was a very mild and gentle and almost rever- 
ent scepticism. It was, in his opinion, a great 
pity that people couldn’t agree about it — that it 
should separate husbands and wives, and be per- 
mitted to complicate life, which was already such 
a tangled web. 

“Of course, Tibby’s always been dead against 
Lumleigh,” continued Maxim Pascoe. “She al- 
ways thought he didn’t mean to legalize the mar- 
riage. Yet whenever I’ve seen him I can’t help 
saying that I’ve been agreeably impressed by him, 
and Heaven knows, I was as prejudiced against 
him as it is possible to be. Very frank — plain- 
spoken and candid — yet all the time I knew the 
fellow wasn’t straight. He was very much in 
love with Yolande, and delighted with the boy, 
but not at all prepared to sacrifice anything for 
either of them.” 

“When was he last here?” 

“About a year ago,” said the Major. “They 
had rather a flare-up at the end. He came just 
when Ambrose had had that operation for pleu- 
risy, and we were very anxious. Lumleigh was 
anxious too — at one time we could hardly keep 
him out of the nursery. Well, I thought then he 
was quite prepared to marry Yolande on her own 


FINE CLAY 


297 


terms. Not a bit of it! The boy mustn’t be 
brought up a Catholic. I think he had an idea 
that he was, in any case, to be allowed to come 
here and see them whenever he deigned to spare 
the time. But Yolande was quite firm about that. 
If he decided not to accept her terms, he was to 
go away altogether. I think myself she was 
quite right. It was wearing her to pieces. It 
didn’t give her a chance of settling down here — it 
made her restless and miserable. So he went 
away. I wonder he hasn’t taken steps to dis- 
solve the marriage.” 

“But I think that is what he means to do” — 
Mr. Prendergast uttered this sentence very 
slowly and deliberately — “though it remains to 
be seen whether he will face the publicity which 
it would entail. I know he hasn’t said a word 
about it to his parents yet — they are still in abso- 
lute ignorance of the whole affair. But if he 
should tell them, I am advised that he intends to 
carry out the threat which he made to Yolande 
last year, and take Ambrose away from her.” 

“Oh, he can’t do that!” cried Maxim Pascoe 
sharply; “the child is hers. The Holy See re- 
gards the marriage as invalid, owing to the ex- 
istence at the time of the marriage of another 
wife, and therefore it holds the child illegitimate.” 

“But in England the child is legitimate,” said 
Mr. Prendergast. “Lumleigh knows what he’s 
talking about when he says he has a father’s claim 
on the boy. He can take him away and bring 
him up exactly as he pleases.” . . . 

“And do you mean to tell me that he intends 
to do that?” 


298 


FINE CLAY 


“To the best of my belief/’ said Prendergast. 
He threw away the end of his cigarette, and se- 
lecting another, lit it with great precision. “And 
my advice to you, Pascoe, is to go away. To 
hide — to keep the boy from Lumleigh.” . . . 

“He’s no right whatever to the child!” cried 
Major Pascoe warmly. 

“Indeed, he has every right. He can take him 
away from her, and, depend upon it, that is what 
he intends to do directly he can screw up the cour- 
age to tell Lord Strode about his clandestine 
marriage.” 

“It’ll be over my dead body!” cried Maxim. 

His live body, reflected Mr. Prendergast, was 
not very powerful to resist a determined attack. 

“I want to put the matter very clearly to Yo- 
lande and let her decide. But my advice is — to 
vanish and cover up your tracks. Miss Tibbit 
can continue to act as a policeman and a watch- 
dog. And I should advise you to go soon — and 
to go far.” . . . 

“I think you are an alarmist. I can’t believe 
Lumleigh would do it,” said Major Pascoe. 

“Well, I have warned you,” said Mr. Prender- 
gast, “and I advise you not to delay. Remem- 
ber, Lumleigh has been quiet for more than a 
year. And for nearly three years the young 
couple have absolutely failed to come to an agree- 
ment, though it is quite certain they were fond of 
each other, and desired to legalize the tie that ex- 
isted between them. These efforts having failed, 
it is, after all, only natural that Lumleigh should 
endeavor to gain possession of his son, and 


FINE CLAY 


299 


bring him up in such a manner as shall eventually 
admit of his inheriting the estates.” 

“But I don’t believe — bad as he is — that he’d 
do anything so outrageously cruel!” 

“Is there any chance of Yolande communi- 
cating with him?” 

“She won’t, of course, if it means running any 
risk about the boy. She has made, you see, such 
immense sacrifices for him already.” 

“Haven’t you done talking business yet?” Yo- 
lande appeared in the doorway leading Ambrose 
by the hand. “I want Mr. Prendergast to see 
Ambrose before he goes out for a walk. Go and 
say buon giorno to that gentleman, Ambrose dar- 
ling.” 

The child obeyed immediately, and lifted his 
face to be kissed. 

It was a small, thoughtful little face, rather too 
pale and serious for such a young child. 

Mr. Prendergast was a bachelor, and his atti- 
tude towards little children was very largely 
tempered with fear. 

“That’s a bonny little man!” he said in a con- 
ciliatory tone, chucking Ambrose under the chin 
— an attention to which he was wholly unaccus- 
tomed. “That’s a bonny little man,” repeated 
Mr. Prendergast, nodding and smiling; “stick to 
him, Yolande — that is my advice.” 

“But of course I shall,” said Yolande, “I have 
never been away from him a single day. And 
nobody wants him except his mother and Tibby, 
and of course papa,” and she laid her hand af- 
fectionately on her father’s arm. 


300 


FINE CLAY 


“Are you quite sure of that, my dear?” said 
Mr. Prendergast, who still regarded Yolande as 
something of a child. 

She colored. “Hasn’t papa told you that Gif- 
ford chose Merry wood when it came to the 
point?” Tears slowly filled her dark eyes. “If 
he wants anything he wants to get rid of us.” 

“Of you , my dear, perhaps, but not of Am- 
brose. Sons and heirs like that aren’t to be had 
for the asking.” 

“He can’t inherit,” said Yolande stubbornly. 
She hated speaking of her affairs to any one, even 
to her father; she never did so unless she were 
obliged. 

“Whether he can inherit or not, he must even- 
tually succeed to the title. He is the heir, and all 
the religions in the world won’t alter that. He’ll 
be Lord Strode if he survives his grandfather and 
his father.” 

Yolande turned very white. “What do you 
mean?” she said quickly; “he belongs to me, and 
I don’t intend to give him up.” 

“You might be made to, though,” said Mr. 
Prendergast. He watched her face to see the ef- 
fect of his words upon her. 

“Do you mean the law could compel me?” 

“Your marriage was regular and legal accord- 
ing to English law. They have a right to the 
boy.” 

“What shall I do?” She looked piteously 
from one to the other. 

Mr. Prendergast repeated the advice he had 
given to Major Pascoe earlier in the afternoon. 

“Go — where he can’t find you — where he can’t 


FINE CLAY 


301 


trace you — while he is still making up his mind 
what steps to take. I have learned that this is 
his most probable game — to get possession of the 
boy. If you want to frustrate him go soon, be- 
fore he makes his final plans!” 

“Papa — papa — I can’t believe Gifford would 
do it! I can’t believe it!” She choked back a 
sob. 

“But he has threatened you with it, my dear,” 
said Major Pascoe. “You told me so — after he 
went away last time.” 

“Oh, I never thought he meant it,” she said. 
She went out of the room, still leading Ambrose, 
ashamed that they should see her tears. 

Mr. Prendergast turned to Major Pascoe. 

“Wonderful that she can still trust him,” he 
murmured. 

“She loves him,” said Maxim; “she loves a rot- 
ten worthless man as her mother did before her. 
Only Veronica gave me a kind of straightening 
out. I wouldn’t have gone against her over the 
little girl for all the money in the world!” 

“She won’t refuse to go, I hope?” said Mr. 
Prendergast. 

“Oh, I think she’ll go all right — for the boy’s 
sake. But we were so settled and happy here — 
we had found a soft thing for once in our lives. 
It’s a lovely place and a delightful climate — and 
it will be very difficult to decide where to go to.’* 

“Off the beaten track — somewhere where he 
can’t trace you,” said Mr. Prendergast. 

Major Pascoe was, however, not called upon 
to make provision for his daughter’s flight. Not 


302 


FINE CLAY 


that he would have shirked the task had he been 
permitted to undertake it. Late that same night 
his bell was heard to ring, and Yolande, rising, 
went immediately to his room. He was lying 
propped up by pillows, breathing with difficulty, 
gray in the face, with an odd bluish shadow about 
his mouth. She was not at first greatly alarmed, 
for she had often see him before in one of his 
heart-attacks. Having given him the usual 
remedies, she ran and woke Tibby, begging her 
to send a messenger for the doctor. Then she 
quietly returned to his room. 

He was speaking to himself in short, quick 
gasps. . . . 

“Veronica mustn’t blame me,” he muttered de- 
liriously; “I never saw the man in my life till 
after the marriage. I never introduced them. 
It all happened when I was ill in Boulogne. . . . 
I couldn’t help it.” . . . 

“Papa,” she said desperately; “you mustn’t 
fret about that. It wasn’t your fault — it was 
mine.” Her voice was appealing. He feebly 
put out his hand and clasped hers. 

“My dear little girl — my dear little girl,” he 
said, “you must do the best you can for Ambrose 
when I’m gone. . . . Make him a good Catholic 
. . . after all that is what matters most. . . . 
Tibby will help you — Tibby is an old rock. 
Keep Tibby with you, darling.” . . . 

She sat by his side until the dawn came — won- 
derfully golden in the eastern sky, whitening the 
sea to silver. Through the open window came 
the fresh scent of dew-wet roses. A bird twit- 


FINE CLAY 


803 


tered. The soft and perfumed air seemed to re- 
vive him for a moment. 

“Are you there, darling?” 

She crept closer. 

“Papa,” she said gently. 

“You couldn’t help it — you were cheated,” he 
said, and his blue eyes looked at her with a gaze 
that had become slightly vague. “You were only 
a child. Veronica mustn’t blame me. . . . 
Well, dear — you have got Tibby and Ambrose — 
you won’t be quite alone.” 

The last time he spoke he said only the one 
word Veronica , and looked past Yolande with 
eyes that were open, bright, smiling, and oddly 
confident. . . . 

Thus died Maxim Pascoe. . . . 

And Tibby came and took Yolande away, and 
put her to bed with loving tenderness, just as if 
she had been a little girl again. 

Almost immediately after the funeral the three 
survivors of the little party at the Villa Viola 
packed up their possessions and journeyed forth 
into a world that must, they felt, surely prove 
large enough to hide them from all pursuers. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


P arents with marriageable daughters looked 
anew towards Merrywood when after a 
period of mourning the family emerged once 
more from the obscurity dictated by such a se- 
vere and sudden bereavement. It was not only 
in the eyes of his parents that Gifford appeared 
in a new light. He was impressing the fact of 
his abrupt reformation upon many others, outside 
his own family circle. In the old days he had 
been a subject for regret on the part of well-in- 
tentioned persons, and for gossip among those 
more maliciously inclined. Some had been 
found to pity him before the news of that dis- 
astrous first marriage had brought him into such 
fierce publicity. It was said that his father 
treated him with harsh severity, and that this 
had made the boy wild and reckless. Parents 
with young and susceptible daughters had been 
the first to take alarm at those untoward re- 
ports, which permeated to the neighborhood 
with so strong a savor of verisimilitude. When 
nothing else could be said to his discredit it was 
alleged that a fresh array of debts had come to 
Lord Strode’s knowledge, plunging him in new 
disgrace. The daughters themselves, less ready 
to believe ill of one so handsome and at- 
tractive, still regarded him as the misjudged vie- 


FINE CLAY 


305 


tim of unique parental harshness. They were 
ready to fall in love, and Gifford had always 
been ready to be fallen in love with. More than 
one girl besides Kathleen Purflete had dreamed 
of the day when she should be Mrs. Gifford Lum- 
leigh. But Gifford had made no vows; on the 
first hint of serious expectations of marriage he 
became elusive and invisible. Then the news of 
his early and rash marriage with a pretty and 
common little actress hit more than one aspirant 
pretty hard. At the age of twenty-two he re- 
turned home — forgiven, but still under a cloud 
— having, as all the world then knew, divorced 
his wife. He was cold-shouldered mercilessly, 
and went nowhere. He felt this new position, 
it was said, very keenly; it wounded his pride. 
Then came Boulogne — the sweet summer days 
spent with Yolande; the little love drama en- 
acted at the Villa Falaise and afterwards at the 
Chalet des Pins. Nothing was known in and 
about Merry wood of the next few months, 
though there were reports never substantiated 
of a second marriage quite as unsuitable as the 
first. These rumors never reached Lord 
Strode’s ears, though there had been another 
grave quarrel, and after Rex’s death Gifford 
came back and took up his abode permanently at 
Merrywood. He was the heir; his father 
had forgiven him. It must have been false — 
that absurd story of a second marriage and 
of a wife who had left him within six weeks! 
People began to sum up the things in his favor, 
forgetting the old days. A pretty property 
with plenty of money — Lord Strode could not 


306 


FINE CLAY 


possibly be spending a fourth of the Lumleigh 
income. A reformed young man who had sown 
all his wild oats and now promised to sustain the 
family tradition of calm and unnotorious re- 
spectability. It was known that Lord Strode 
desired a marriage for his son with Lady Kath- 
leen Purflete. Lord FitzGrave was willing to 
part with his daughter in consideration of the 
quite extraordinary handsome settlements that 
were proposed. And Cat herself was not un- 
willing. To her intimate friends she declared 
her confidence in her own ability to “lick the 
Lumleigh cub into shape.” They were aware, 
however, that she had been in love with him for 
five years through good and evil report, and she 
was beginning to feel that it was time to settle 
down. But in spite of these promising pre- 
liminaries the matter hung fire. The young 
man had burned his fingers in too fierce a flame 
to hazard a second matrimonial venture. Peo- 
ple revived the story of the clandestine second 
marriage and of an unacknowledged son. Re- 
newed coldness sprang up between Lord Strode 
and Gifford owing to his obdurate refusal to 
marry Lady Kathleen. It was said that Lady 
Strode had had an affecting explanatory inter- 
view with the girl. But to outward appearance 
little seemed changed at Merrywood. Gifford 
had been living there now for more than two 
years. During all that time he had only once 
been abroad. 

Lady Kathleen married that summer. She 
was now Lady Kathleen Chenevix, and her hus- 
band was a neighboring squire. In this matter 


FINE CLAY 


307 


she had followed her mother’s wise and practical 
advice. Lord Strode apparently accepted the 
fact of Gifford’s reluctance to marry again. 
The gossip concerning him had not reached his 
ears, and he never questioned him. Gifford was 
his right hand, industrious, assiduous, energetic, 
full of schemes for the improvement of the prop- 
erty. His views on housing, though too modern 
for his father, were sound and moderate. He 
talked of standing for Parliament for that 
division of Sussex. 

All the time he was planning and scheming to 
gain possession of his son. To break the news 
of his marriage to his father. To obtain his 
forgiveness through Ambrose. The boy’s up- 
bringing should lie in their hands. Only — 
there must be no severity of the kind he had suf- 
fered. 

He knew nothing of Major Pascoe’s death. 
That event had been kept out of the English 
newspapers, and only Maxim’s immediate re- 
lations had been informed of it. He had been 
dead to them all for so long that the official in- 
formation scarcely disturbed them. 

Gifford waited his time. He let the months 
slip by and still he took no steps. He could not 
bring himself to deal Yolande so mortal a hurt. 
But Ambrose must be removed from her keep- 
ing at as early an age as possible. Four years 
old — five years old — yes, that must be the limit. 
He was learning to harden his heart against Y o- 
lande. But he could not risk an interview with 
her. How could he know whether she would 
not still have the power to call his old passionate 


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love and devotion once more into being? Fi- 
nally, the desire to hear news of her triumphed 
over all other considerations, and in the winter 
before Ambrose’s fourth birthday Gifford an- 
nounced his intention of going abroad for a few 
weeks. He had had a slight attack of influenza, 
and made that his excuse for seeking a warmer 
climate. He journeyed without delay to San 
Giuliano. . . . 

As Gifford approached the Villa Viola, after 
nearly three years of absence, he saw that all the 
green wooden shutters were closely fastened 
over the windows. They seemed to stare at him 
like blind unspeculating eyes. A chill Febru- 
ary wind blew from the sea; rain was falling 
softly, in slender silver arrows, but here and 
there an almond-tree showed its drifts of delicate 
pink bloom. 

He rang the bell and the great green gate 
swung back; he found himself once more on the 
familiar white pathway with its palms and olean- 
ders and mournful cypresses. He walked 
quickly up to the house with a strange misgiv- 
ing in his heart. It looked so cold — so empty — 
so uninhabited, as if some sudden plague had 
carried away its inmates. The old and deaf 
Italian woman who appeared at the door shook 
her head in reply to his questions. 

“Where is la Signora Lumleigh?” he de- 
manded. 

She shook her head, and waved indefinitely to- 
wards those dim and blotted mountains of the 
south. 


FINE CLAY 309 

“Gone?” A sick fear invaded his heart. 
“Where to?” 

Again she shook her head, shrugged her 
shoulders. 

“How can I tell? The signora never said. 
It was a long, long time ago, more than a year 
— nearly two years. It was soon after her 
father died. The little boy must have been 
about two years old. To France, perhaps?” 
She made this suggestion with brightening face 
as if it had been the result of quite unusual in- 
telligence. “For they came from France — did 
they not? — la signora and her father — before 
the baby was born. She remembered the night 
of his birth. She had been told that an English 
lady — very young, very beautiful, lay dying at 
the Villa Viola — and that the priest had been 
sent for to give her the Last Sacraments, 
and baptize the little boy.” Her garrulous 
reminiscences were scarcely intelligible to Gif- 
ford, for his Italian was very limited, still he 
could catch the drift of her incoherent mum- 
blings. 

“They didn’t leave any address?” he said. 

His voice was raised now almost in anger. 
His eyes were sullen and resentful. He did 
not believe that she was ignorant as to Yolande’s 
whereabouts. But she only shook her head and 
raised her hands in gesticulation. 

“They left none. They went away suddenly 
and quickly — directly after the old gentleman’s 
death. The old lady went also — it was said 
that she never left la signora — was as a mother 
to her. Yes — it was in April nearly two years 


310 


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ago. The weather was very hot, and the child 
had been ailing.” . . . 

April — two years ago. This was February 
— she had been gone almost two years. He felt 
bewildered. Always he had pictured her here, 
living quietly, tranquilly, with her father and 
child and old Tibby. And Major Pascoe was 
dead — and she and Tibby and Ambrose had van- 
ished. . . . 

“I don’t understand,” he said, more to himself 
than to the shrivelled old woman who continued 
to address him in voluble Italian. 

He felt cold and sick, almost ill. How much 
he had desired to see Yolande he had not real- 
ized, until he had come here only to find her 
gone. 

“I don’t understand . . .” he said again. 

Then a sudden idea occurred to him. 

“May I come in and see the house?” 

“But certainly if the Signore wishes it. It is 
all quite empty and clean. La Marchesa to 
whom it belongs wishes to find a tenant for it.” 
She held the door wide open and he entered the 
narrow white-washed hall. 

First into the great lofty sitting-rooms that 
had served as dining-room, drawing-room, and 
study. Wide, white, spacious, empty. He re- 
membered her telling him long ago in Devon- 
shire that she liked large, empty rooms, white 
and wide, with the sun pouring in. It had been 
a reaction from the tiny stifling apartments she 
had known in her childhood in Boulogne. Sign- 
ing to the old woman not to follow him, he went 


FINE CLAY 


311 


upstairs into the nursery where they had both 
watched over Ambrose in that grave illness of 
his. He opened the window, throwing back the 
wooden shutters and fastening the big hooks that 
secured them. 

White — wide — empty. But there was no 
sunshine to-day to fill it. Only that low, gray 
sky that blurred the hills and blotted out the im- 
mense shape of Porto Fino. The gray tem- 
pestuous sea, even from this distance, showed 
its bars of sullen white foam in broken flashes. 
The cypresses stood up like a group of stern 
watchful sentinels. The pergolas were empty 
of vines ; the fig-trees were bare and showed only 
stiff knotted branches. He thought he had 
never seen such desolation. All the furniture 
had been removed, for the Marquise intended to 
let the villa unfurnished for a term of years. 
In imagination he could see Ambrose’s little cot 
drawn up near the fire, and the small dark head 
showing among the white pillows. And Yo- 
lande sitting beside him, tired and pale with long 
watching, but beautiful in her tender maternal 
devotion. He bent down and kissed the floor 
where her feet had once trodden. Why had he 
not written? Why had he kept away from her? 
He had not even tried to see her for nearly three 
years. 

He wandered through room after room like 
a restless ghost. His own footsteps echoed 
dully. Every room was empty, and darkened 
by those closed wooden shutters. Outside, the 
combined sobbing of trees and wind and sea. 


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Somewhere — out there in the world — in some 
place he did not know — Yolande was hiding from 
him — hiding with her boy. . . . 

This room had been her own sitting-room 
where he had seen her playing with Ambrose. 
There was a cupboard in one corner and he 
opened it. On one of the shelves there was a 
little bow of pale blue velvet ribbon. He rec- 
ognized it as similar to one that Yolande had 
worn on her white dress, on the night he had 
dined there when Ambrose was so ill. He took 
it up reverently and held it to his lips. Yes . . . 
he loved her. If he could have found her then 
she might have made her own terms. . . . 

Ambrose was nearly four years old — quite a 
big boy. He could always judge the approxi- 
mate stage of his development by recalling what 
Robin had been about eighteen months before. 
There was about that difference between their 
ages, perhaps a little more. Four years old — 
a charming age, full of small activities and eager- 
nesses, sweet and winning, yet full of mischief. 
He thought of Ambrose with a forlorn pride. 
Running about everywhere, hardy and independ- 
ent for his age, giving little shrieks of delight; 
he could imagine the child’s gay laughter and 
how Yolande’s would mingle with it. And 
Tibby in the background, though the familiar 
figure of “Papa” had vanished. He had never 
liked Tibby, with her uncompromising frank- 
ness and undisguised hostility, but he would have 
given ten years of his life to have seen her then, 
and heard from her lips news of his darling. 

For a month longer he made search — through 


FINE CLAY 


313 


France and Italy. Inquiries at Boulogne led 
only to a blind alley of failure. The Marquise 
de Solignac was spending the winter in Kandy. 
Nothing had been heard or seen there of Major 
Pascoe and his daughter for some years. Gif- 
ford caught cold in Rome, where he was follow- 
ing up a faint clue that later proved a false one. 
Reluctantly he turned his face homeward. It 
was ill searching for her in so large a world. 

He reached Merrywood early in April. The 
weather was wintry; the sharp white sky had 
the leaden opaque look which presages snow. 
He felt the cold, and as he entered the hall he 
coughed. The cough struck fear into Lady 
Strode’s heart even before she saw his great gaunt 
figure, his thin haggard face, confronting her 
with the saddest expression she had ever seen. 

“Welcome home, my darling,” she said, kiss- 
ing him. There were new and deep lines in her 
tragic white face. “I thought you were never 
coming.” 

“I know,” he said; “it has been a long time — 
a long time.” 

Long, futile, wasted. Two months of bitter- 
est torment. And now he had come back, and 
seemed to be standing there amid the ruins of 
his own broken hopes. . . . 

“But you are burning hot, dear,” she said, 
touching his hand. 

He drew it abruptly away. 

“You’re not ill, Gifford dearest?” There was 
terror in her eyes, the eyes of a woman who has 
already seen one beloved son lying dead. 

“Oh, I’ve only got a bit of a cold. It was 


314 


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very cold traveling home.” He coughed again. 

Later, when pneumonia had him in its hard, 
relentless grip, he wrung his mother’s heart by 
calling her Yolande in a voice she had never 
heard, but which seemed to hold the very quintes- 
sence of passion and devotion. Yolande? She 
cast her mind back. That surely was the name 
of that Boulogne girl. What had she been to 
her son? She remembered only too well the 
scene that there had been when Gifford had pas- 
sionately declared his intention of marrying her. 
That was a long time ago — more than a year be- 
fore Rex’s death, and Rex had already been dead 
more than three years. 

Gifford’s illness was not a long one, but to his 
mother, who watched him with a heart torn with 
anxiety and suspense, it had seemed to last 
through an eternity of pain. Just before the 
end he looked up, and said in a voice of inde- 
scribable tenderness : 

“Dear heart — you must keep Ambrose. He 
was always more yours than mine. I wanted 
him — but I didn’t like to take him away from 
you, Yolande.” . . . The words trailed off into 
a weak whisper. 

Ambrose? His father and mother caught at 
the name — unknown to them. Lady Strode 
bent over Gifford. 

“Where is Ambrose?” she said. 

“I don’t know,” he said; “they have left San 
Giuliano.” And then a wandering delirium 
supervened; he never knew nor spoke to any one 
again. . . . 


CHAPTER XXIX 


TV/Tr. Hurrell journeyed down to Merry wood 
to be present at the funeral of Gifford 
Lumleigh. He saw no one when he first arrived, 
for Lord Strode, completely broken by this sec- 
ond bereavement, was unable to receive any one, 
and his wife did not leave him. Both, however, 
were present at the last sad rites in Merrywood 
Church, and upon their return to the Place they 
intimated to Mr. Hurrell that they would see 
him in the library. 

The task from which Gifford had shrunk for 
so long had now devolved upon the lawyer, and 
he wondered how they would receive the news he 
had to impart. He had a copy of Gifford’s will 
with him, in which he had left all the fortune over 
which he had any control to his beloved wife, 
Yolande Mary Veronica Lumleigh, in trust for 
his son Ambrose. The document had been con- 
fided to his care with the utmost secrecy; it had 
been drawn up and signed on the day Gifford 
had passed through London, on his way home 
from that futile final journey to San Giuliano. 

“You know of course, Mr. Hurrell,” said 
Lord Strode, “that my heir is now Robin Lum- 
leigh — Sydney Lumleigh’s boy. He is quite a 
little child — not six years old— and if anything 
should happen to me there will be a very long 
minority.” 

315 


316 


FINE CLAY 


Mr. Hurrell cleared his throat. 

“You are not aware, my lord,” he said gravely, 
“that your son has left a wife and child?” 

“A wife and child!” echoed Lord Strode. 

Lady Strode turned very pale. She had half 
hoped and half dreaded from her son’s dying 
ejaculations that there might be some direct 
claimant to title and estates. She bent forward 
a little. 

“He was married, then?” she said. And as 
she said the words she told herself that she had 
always suspected it — that never through all 
those years had his heart been at Merry wood. 
He had lived there under the same roof with his 
parents, discharging all his duties great and 
small, carefully, precisely, but frozenly. All 
the time there was some one in the world whom 
he had loved . . . some one who had borne him 
a son. . . . 

“Yes — he was married nearly five years ago in 
London to a Miss Yolande Pascoe, whom he met 
in France — in Boulogne, I believe.” 

“Then why did he never tell us? Why did he 
never bring her here?” said Lord Strode incredu- 
lously. “Has she written to you? Has she 
made any claim?” 

“He knew that he could not bring her here 
without incurring your displeasure,” said Mr. 
Hurrell, in his cold precise tone, “and far from 
making any claim, she has persistently denied 
that she was ever his wife. She refused to take 
any steps to ratify her marriage, which from her 
point of view was no marriage at all. She was 
a Catholic, and you are aware, no doubt, that a 


FINE CLAY 


317 


Catholic cannot marry a man who has a divorced 
wife living. At the time of her marriage to your 
son his divorced wife, Mrs. Harrison, was still 
alive. Miss Pascoe — or rather Mrs. Lumleigh 
— did not know of her existence till she had been 
married some weeks. When she discovered it 
she left your son at once and returned to Bou- 
logne, and I believe that she and her father then 
went to live in Italy, where some months later 
her child — a son — was born. Your son knew 
nothing of their whereabouts, and he was not 
aware that a child had been born to them until 
the following year, when he accidentally discov- 
ered them living near San Giuliano. By this 
time Mrs. Harrison was dead, and there was 
nothing to prevent the young people from satis- 
fying the ecclesiastical authorities by going 
through a second ceremony of marriage. But 
Mrs. Lumleigh is, I understand, a devout Catho- 
lic, and she refused to do this unless Mr. Lum- 
leigh promised that she might continue to bring 
up her child Ambrose in her own faith. The 
same conditions also applied to any subsequent 
children that might be bom to them. I under- 
stand that on this point she was adamant ! Your 
son was just about to accede to these terms when 
a telegram reached him informing him of his 
brother’s death. From that day he was tom in 
two by the conflicting claims of his duty to his 
wife and his duty to the property. After pro- 
longed consideration he made up his mind to go 
and claim his son, and bring him here to plead 
for your forgiveness. He deferred doing this 
on account of the terrible wound it would inevi- 


318 


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tably inflict upon his wife. He went to San 
Giuliano in February, and there learned that 
Major Pascoe — his wife’s father — had died there 
about two years ago, and that she and her child 
had left the villa in company with an elderly 
governess. He was quite unable to trace them. 
The rest you know.” 

“This child is being brought up as a Catholic 
by his mother?” said Lord Strode. 

“Yes,” replied Mr. Hurrell; “I had an inter- 
view with Mr. Lumleigh when he passed through 
town last week on his return from Italy. I drew 
up this will in accordance with his instructions, 
and in it he has left all his property to his wife 
in trust for his son. He seemed quite broken- 
hearted that he had not been able to find either 
of them. He was extremely attached to his 
wife, but he could see no way out of the difficulty 
except to remove the boy from her custody and 
bring him up a Protestant. The marriage, I 
need not say, was perfectly legal in England, 
and though he sometimes talked of having it dis- 
solved on account of the irregularity which ex- 
isted from her point of view, he took no steps to 
achieve this.” 

Lord Strode stood up. 

“This is an extraordinary story, Hurrell,” he 
said, “and to convince me of the truth of it you 
will have to produce all available documents. 
It is inconceivable that my son should have gone 
on living here year after year, never saying a 
word to any one about his marriage.” 

“There was the religious difficulty. He 
hoped, I believe, that the mother might, in course 


FINE CLAY 


319 


of time, for the boy’s sake come to yield on this 
point. But there was never any sign of her 
doing so. I have documents which admit of no 
doubt as to his legal claim, and I think they will 
satisfy you. It is a very sad and in some ways a 
very tragic story, and I hoped for a long time 
that they would come to some mutual arrange- 
ment which would put an end to their separa- 
tion. Especially,” and now his keen eyes 
searched Lord Strode’s face with a penetrating 
gaze, “especially since I understand the regard 
was mutual, and that Miss Pascoe was so very 
much in love with him that she consented to a 
clandestine marriage. Even her father knew 
nothing of it, nor did the Marquise de Solignac, 
with whom she was staying in London when it 
took place.” 

“There is only one thing to be done,” said 
Lord Strode, “and that is to find them. Surely 
when she hears that her husband is dead, and 
that the boy is heir to a large and important 
property, she will consent to bring him here.” 

“She will not, my lord,” said Mr. ITurrell, “if 
there is the slightest danger to his faith.” 

“Of course he must be brought up as a Prot- 
estant,” said Lord Strode; “otherwise he will 
inherit only an empty title. The boy belongs 
to his father’s family. He must be educated as 
we wish. How old is this — this person, Mr. 
Hurrell?” 

The lawyer, made a brief mental calculation. 
“She must be now about twenty-three years old, 
my lord,” he said. 

“Twenty- three! And does she think we are 


320 


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going to be dictated to by a child of twenty-three? 
Gifford — poor boy — must have behaved in an ex- 
traordinarily weak manner to her. He could not 
have used his authority at all 

“But, you see, she did not recognize his au- 
thority. In the eyes of her Church she was not 
his wife at all, and I believe that the Holy See 
also regards the child as illegitimate, since no 
subsequent marriage took place between his par- 
ents.” 

“But you are satisfied that he is legitimate?” 

“There is no question about that at all, my 
lord. And Mr. Lumleigh seemed to think that 
his wife was beginning to fear that he might 
come and claim the boy and take him away, and 
that was the reason for her very abrupt depar- 
ture from San Giuliano. We think she is per- 
haps traveling under an assumed name, and that 
Miss Tibbit, her old governess, is pretending to 
be her mother. But this is only guesswork. 
We have absolutely no idea of their present 
whereabouts.” 

“And how old is this boy now?” inquired Lord 
Strode. 

“He will be four years old this month, my 
lord.” 

“Four years old . . .” repeated Lady Strode. 
She could recall how charming and winning Gif- 
ford had been at that endearing age. She won- 
dered if little Ambrose resembled him. 

“We must find him and take him away from 
his mother’s influence. While he is still so 
young, it can have made no lasting impression 
upon him,” said Lord Strode sternly. “We 


FINE CLAY 


321 


shall allow her to have access to her son only on 
condition that she does not interfere with his re- 
ligious education.” 

He glanced over the pages of the will. Yes — 
there was no doubt of it. Gifford had married 
this woman, and had left a son to succeed him. 
He felt a thrill of pride that he had a grand- 
son in the world who was heir to the family hon- 
ors. Well — this poor misguided woman had 
made a plucky fight for the possession of her 
boy — but they could not aff ord to have any senti- 
mental compassion for her. The time had come 
when she would have to give him up. 

“You’d better advertise, Hurrell,” were his 
parting words to the lawyer as he took his leave 
that night ; “we can offer a very large reward for 
any information that leads to the discovery of 
this Mrs. Lumleigh’s whereabouts. We must 
not leave any stone unturned in the matter.” 

The first intimation that Yolande had of Gif- 
ford’s death was the advertisement which ap- 
peared in innumerable French and Italian pa- 
pers as well as in the leading English ones. She 
was living in Palermo at the time under the 
name of Mrs. Chesson — her mother’s maiden 
name — and she was already supposed to be a 
widow with one little boy. 

Maxim’s pension had died with him, and 
Yolande’s own pittance was so small that it barely 
sufficed for their simple needs, even when it was 
supplemented by Tibby’s tiny income. But liv- 
ing was cheap in Palermo, and she had found 
rooms in an old convent, so secluded and obscure 


322 


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that none of the English residents in the town 
were aware of her presence there. 

Yolande at twenty-three years of age was per- 
haps more beautiful than she had ever been, even 
in the first entrancing loveliness of her girlhood. 
But her eyes were very sad; she had still the 
look of one who has emerged from great perils 
and carries the remembrance forever in her 
heart. 

She devoted herself to the care of Ambrose, 
and the child from being always with his mother 
and Tibby was rather old-fashioned and ad- 
vanced for his age. In this he resembled the 
Italian children, who develop earlier than those 
of more northern countries. He still spoke 
Italian more fluently than he did English, and, 
like his mother, he spoke his own language with 
a slight foreign accent and without flattening the 
“r” in the English way. Thus he often passed 
for an Italian child, and, indeed, he was so dark 
as to be almost Sicilian-looking. He now ac- 
companied his mother to Benediction every aft- 
ernoon in the convent chapel, and little by little 
she had begun to teach him those great mysteries 
of his faith which are so wonderfully easy for 
little children to learn. He could repeat a good 
deal of his catechism, which he learned in Eng- 
lish. Their little world seemed a very happy 
one, and tranquil after great storms; it was also 
secure, apart and hidden. Yet, if ever Gifford 
had come and found her, Yolande knew that he 
would have had the power — even as he had al- 
ways had — to wake anew that slumbering and 
only half-slain love which lay hidden in her heart. 


FINE CLAY 


323 


Even fear could not kill it — that sickening fear 
which had driven her into still further exile with 
her son. No other man existed for her. She 
was not the kind of woman who loves twice. 

This was her opportunity to prepare Ambrose 
for the future, and she made the most of it. Un- 
der other circumstances she would have hesi- 
tated to force him, for he was a delicate, highly- 
strung child. But he was very intelligent and 
eager to learn, and made her task an easy one. 
Tibby would have liked to have had a larger 
share in it. But Yolande shook her head. 
“You’ve taught so many children, Tibby dar- 
ling — you must let me teach this one!” It was 
then that he first learned to say his rosary. It 
was astonishing how quickly he did this, and how 
soon he knew the right sequence of the Fifteen 
Mysteries — the Joyful, the Sorrowful and the 
Glorious. Yolande, upon being closely ques- 
tioned by her small son, admitted her preference 
for the Five Sorrowful Mysteries; they were, 
however, the ones that appealed least to Ambrose 
then. The Joyful Mysteries, when our Blessed 
Lord was a child — even those two most mys- 
terious ones before His birth — were those that 
Ambrose preferred. Benediction he under- 
stood and loved, and he envied, above all things, 
the lot of the little boy who stood near the priest, 
swinging the censer from whence rose those sil- 
ver clouds of perfumed smoke. In his baby 
way he could dimly appreciate the tremendous 
and passionate drama of the Mass. When the 
bell ran^, he copied his mother’s action and 
bowed his head on his hands. She, watching 


324 


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him with anxious eyes, wondered if he would ever 
forget. Would other surroundings ever oblit- 
erate those lessons he learned in Palermo? He 
was so little — so young — he could so easily for- 
get. 

Her security had, however, never seemed so 
assured as on the day when Tibby first drew her 
attention to the advertisement. She had been 
laughing and playing with Ambrose in the sunny 
loggia, when Tibby came out with a grave face. 
Yolande was quick to take alarm, as all those 
must be who live perpetually in the presence of a 
haunting fear that no reason can silence. She 
ran towards her. “Tibby dear — what is it? 
You look as if you had seen a ghost. It isn’t 
Gifford?” 

“He is dead, my darling,” said Tibby com- 
passionately. 

She put her arms round Yolande, who sank 
back into a chair and sobbed in a heart-broken 
fashion. Dead . . . and she had never even 
known of his illness. Dead. . . . She had loved 
him, and then she had feared him, but always he 
had been unalterably and most passionately dear 
to her. And he was the father of the little boy 
who was running about in the sunshine in such 
unconscious happiness. Presently she turned 
and took the paper from Tibby ’s hand. “Let 
me read it,” she said. 

“<£5,000 Reward, — Above will be paid to any 
one giving accurate information as to the Where- 
abouts of Ambrose Maxim Gifford Lumleigh, 
only son of the late Plonorable John Denis Gif- 


FINE CLAY 


32 5 


ford Lumleigh, younger son of Lord Strode, of 
Merry wood Place, Sussex. The said Ambrose 
Maxim Gifford Lumleigh is supposed to be with 
his mother, Mrs. Yolande Mary Veronica Lum- 
leigh ( nee Pascoe) ; he is about four years of 
age, and when last heard of was living at 
the Villa Viola, San Giuliano, near Porto 
Fino, Italy. Apply Messrs. Hurrell, Hurrell 
and Mortimer, Littlehampton Street, Strand, 
W. C.” 

So Gifford was dead, and had left informa- 
tion concerning his wife and son. . . . She 
glanced anxiously at Ambrose. Were the 
sleuth-hounds of the law already upon his 
track? . . . 

“My dear — my dear — you mustn’t give way. 
Please God, they may never find us.”. . . 

Yolande lifted a frightened tear-stained face. 

“Oh, why did he ever tell them?” 

Tibby looked straight in front of her with a 
grim expression. 

“They won’t find us,” she said confidently. 
“Not till he’s learnt what we’ve got to teach him. 
... I can’t believe you’ve made all your sacri- 
fices in vain.” 

Yolande shivered in spite of the warmth of 
the May morning, so delicious a month in Sicily, 
redolent of the scent of orange-blossom and 
roses. 

“We must pray for Gifford, dear Tibby,” she 
said. “It does not say when he died. I won- 
der if he ever went back to the Villa Viola and 
found it empty.” She left them and walked 


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along the cloister and into the little chapel, where 
the nuns were singing their office in a soft almost 
melancholy monotone. 

He was dead. . . . He would never come 
back through all the years. She had hoped al- 
ways in her heart that he would come, and make 
her his wife under the only conditions that were 
possible for her. Now that hope, too, was dead. 
Others less pitiful perhaps than he were now on 
the track of her child, obviously determined to 
obtain possession of him, since they had put so 
high a price upon the information that should 
lead to his discovery. She was thankful that she 
had only with her the faithful and devoted Tibby. 
. . . Tibby who would have died rather than dis- 
close the present whereabouts of Ambrose Lum- 
leigh. 

After that day she became very listless. To 
Tibby she never seemed quite the same again. 
She entreated her often to take care of herself 
for the boy’s sake, but she had no energy for 
further effort. She took little food and Tibby 
knew that she did not sleep much. She kept 
Ambrose near her all day, as if she were afraid 
to let him out of her sight. It was at this time, 
too, that she became extremely devout and pious. 
She was like a little nun. She rose very early 
and invariably attended Mass in the convent 
chapel; her familiar black-garbed figure was sel- 
dom absent from its accustomed place. After- 
wards she remained fully an hour in uninter- 
rupted meditation, before she went back to her 
own apartments to join Aunbrose and Tibby at 
the early breakfast of coffee and rolls. And 


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Tibby noticed that she had little care any longer 
for her boy’s education, except in so far as his 
religious instruction was concerned. When once 
Tibby expostulated she only said: “He will 
have plenty of time to learn the other things 
afterwards, Tibby. I’ve learned that this is all 
that matters.” Tibby saw with anguish the 
rapid change that came over her after Gifford’s 
death. It seemed as if as long as he lived his 
love had sustained and supported her through 
the years of separation, but when hope was dead 
Yolande lost something of her own power to 
live. 

She survived him exactly four months. The 
August of that year was an unusually hot one, 
and there was a slight outbreak of cholera in 
Palermo. Yolande took alarm on account of 
her boy, and she was meditating flight when she 
fell ill. Her illness only lasted a few hours, and 
when it was all over and they had taken her away, 
to lie in that southern cemetery under the roses 
and cypress trees, Tibby left Palermo and ac- 
companied Ambrose to Rome. 


CHAPTER XXX 


S usan Tibbit took her new responsibilities very 
seriously. Yolande’s will appointed her 
sole guardian of the boy, Ambrose, and she had 
complete control also of the tiny income which 
in addition to her own sufficed to support them in 
the very simple and inexpensive life which they 
now led. She found rooms in a quiet street in 
Rome, where they passed an uneventful winter. 
There was something mature and unchild-like in 
Ambrose’s grief for his mother. He did not 
see her lying dead — the risk of infection was far 
too great — but he understood that she had gone 
away never to come back, and that her soul no 
longer inhabited her body. Tibby taught him to 
pray for the repose of his mother’s soul, and 
nightly they said the rosary together for this in- 
tention. She confided his history to a Jesuit 
priest whom she had known for a number of 
years, and as she now felt herself ageing very 
much she arranged for him to provide for Am- 
brose’s future, in the event of anything happen- 
ing to her. She felt tolerably safe about him 
since Mr. Hurrell’s advertisement had for some 
time ceased to appear in the Italian papers. 

Ambrose loved St. Peter’s, and a day seldom 
passed when they did not journey thither to 
kneel before those glimmering lamps that made 

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329 


a half circle of light perpetually around the tomb 
of the Apostle. She had just risen from her 
knees one day when a small, thin, sharp-faced 
elderly man approached her smiling. 

She thought he was a tourist who had come up 
to ask her a question, and no inkling of the real 
truth entered her mind. 

“Miss Susan Tibbit?” he said. 

Miss Tibbit turned away and walked towards 
the door holding Ambrose’s hand. She held her 
head loftily. Her name was no concern of any 
one’s, and had she not been in church she would 
have mentioned this fact. But the man un- 
abashed followed her to the steps of the wide 
white piazza. It was a day in late April; the 
air was soft, warm, scented. The sun shone 
brightly on the playing fountains. 

“Miss Susan Tibbit?” he said again. “And 
this must be Ambrose Lumleigh. My name is 
Hurrell, and I have instructions to remove this 
child from your custody, madam, and restore 
him to his lawful guardians, Lord and Lady 
Strode.” 

Miss Tibbit turned very pale and a feeling of 
sick faintness came over her. 

“I am the lawful guardian of this child,” she 
said; “you have no proofs of his identity. His 
mother left him in my care.” 

Taking Ambrose’s hand she re-entered St. 
Peter’s, and walked back across the beautiful 
marble floor to the Confession. Signing to Am- 
brose she made him kneel down by her side. 

They knelt together — perhaps for the last 


330 


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time in this world — and she whispered final 
counsels to the child. 

“ Ambrose, ” s'he said; “they are going to take 
you away from me. Your grandfather is going 
to claim you. But whatever happens to you, re- 
member that you are a Catholic as your dear 
Mama was. Never forget to say your rosary 
every day. Say it always for the repose of her 
soul. Place your whole trust and confidence in 
the Sacred Heart of Our Blessed Lord. Pray 
always to His Blessed Mother to keep you close 
to her dear Son. Try and remember the things 
you have been taught — the prayers that you have 
always said.” 

How she prayed — how she would always pray 
— that the baby mind might store something of 
the ineff able truths of his faith. He, looking up 
wonderingly and only half understanding, saw 
that down the aged seams and furrows of her face 
the slow difficult tears were coursing. . . . 

“Promise, darling,” she said. 

“I promise, Tibby. And I’ll say my rosary 
for you, too. Won’t you come with me?” 

“No, darling — I don’t think they will let me 
come. But you must be a very good boy — a 
good, obedient boy. Never forget that you are 
a Catholic and obedient to the Holy Father. 
Never forget that he once laid his hand on your 
head and blessed you.” . . . 

“Oh, Tibby — you must come with me. ... I 
shall want you.” He began to sob; the sight of 
her tears made him cry. 

“They won’t let me,” she answered, pressing 
him to her. 


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331 


“Perhaps” — he caught at a spar in the midst 
of this unimagined wreckage — “perhaps Our 
Lady will guard me under her robe as she does 
the little dead children . . . because I shall be 
alone . . . and frightened. You remember that 
statue we saw of her where she is keeping the chil- 
dren under her robe?” . . . 

“Yes . . . yes . . . my darling,” sobbed 
Tibby. 

Mr. Hurrell watched the little scene from 
afar. He was not quite unmoved. But he had 
traced the child with all the skilful ingenuity 
which the law could devise or employ. He had 
tracked the little party to Palermo, and had 
heard with some relief of Yolande’s death there. 
That made the task of removing Ambrose an 
easy one. There was no mother to fight for the 
possession of this child, only an old governess 
who had no claim upon him at all. 

He wondered how long they were going to re- 
main there. When at last they rose from their 
knees he went again quietly to the door and met 
them as they came out. 

The sunshine was splendid, blinding and bril- 
liant. Gfoups of people wandered up the steps, 
or gazed from the Piazza at the great Basilica — 
the very center and heart of Christendom. 

“If I refuse to let you have him?” she said. 

“I advise you not to,” he said; “legal proceed- 
ings would be taken which are extremely costly 
and could result in no advantage to you. Now 
that both his parents are dead his grandfather has 
sole claim to his custody. Will you permit me 
to accompany you? We had better drive to save 


332 


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time. I will remain with you while you pack 
his things. Lady Strode is in Rome, ready to 
take him back to England with her. She will 
probably start to-night.” 

The sight of her weeping did not deter him 
from enunciating these facts in his clear level 
voice. 

“Can’t I come with him to England? I’ve 
been with him ever since he was born. And he’s 
so little — such a baby.” 

“I do not think Lady Strode would entertain 
the idea for a moment. You can be quite satis- 
fied that he will be taken every care of. He will 
enjoy every possible comfort and luxury. Your 
task is over, Miss Tibbit. We are assured that 
you have discharged it admirably and faithfully 
according to your lights. No doubt you will be 
properly recompensed.” 

She flashed her old governess-look upon him. 

“Any offer of recompense would be an in- 
sult!” 

They drove down the narrow street, and across 
the Tiber that gleamed like silver and jade in 
the sunlight. She said suddenly: 

“I don’t leave him, mind you, till I’ve seen and 
spoken to Lady Strode — and know that this is 
genuine, and not an attempt to kidnap the boy 
for the sake of the reward you’ve been offer- 
ing!” 

It came into his mind then, with a sense of un- 
willing admiration, that she had been perfectly 
aware of the very large reward that had been 
offered for any information to Ambrose’s 
whereabouts. And this woman — no longer 


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333 


young and, judging from her shabby garments, 
sufficiently poor — had taken no steps to secure 
it for herself. In minds which are perpetually 
occupied with the question of money, the regain- 
ing of it, the desire to increase it, the love of pos- 
sessing it — there is not infrequently a latent ap- 
preciation of those people who are professedly 
and genuinely indifferent to it. 

“Oh, you can come and hand over the child 
yourself. Lady Strode won’t refuse to receive 
you. We will go to the hotel together to satisfy 
your natural anxiety on this point!” 

“You can tell her if she wants to give me any 
part of the reward that I shall throw it into the 
Tiber!” she said. 

One saw across long years that had so softened 
those traces of the martinet, that disciplinarian 
who had been recommended as specially success- 
ful in the management of refractory and unruly 
children. She had changed since those days into 
the indulgent unselfish woman, most kind, and 
most enduringly faithful, whom Yolande and 
Ambrose had successively known and deeply 
loved. 

“I ... I loved his mother,” she said brok- 
enly. “She was a saint. And I wish with all 
my heart she had never set eyes on this child’s 
father. He wrecked her life and abandoned 
her.” 

“Nevertheless her son is Lord Strode’s heir,” 
said Mr. Hurrell suavely; “and naturally they 
wish to remove him from all — ahem — foreign in- 
fluences — while he is still young enough to for- 
get them. There are certain definite things in- 


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cumbent upon any heir to the Merry wood prop- 
erty — things regarding religion.” He fixed 
piercing eyes upon her, but Tibby met them un- 
flinchingly. “No doubt you are aware of this, 
and it provided you with a motive for hiding the 
child — and for assisting his mother to hide him — 
with considerable skill and fo* a very long period. 
This was, I understand also, the principal cause 
of disagreement between his parents. My late 
client would have only been too happy to reg- 
ularize matters had Mrs. Lumleigh been suffi- 
ciently generous to meet him half way.” 

“Half way!” There was indignation as well 
as scorn in her voice. “With us there isn’t any 
half way ! She wasn’t going to deprive him of a 
heritage infinitely more precious than anything 
Lord Strode could offer him! She wasn’t go- 
ing to separate him from the faith she held, and 
her mother before her! Love of the faith was in 
her blood, and she had no ambition for her son 
except that he should grow up a good Catholic, 
and be faithful to his Church!” 

“Very praiseworthy, I’m sure,” said Mr. Hur- 
rell; “and if she had been giving him up to Bud- 
dhists or Mohammedans one might have under- 
stood her point of view better. But we Protes- 
tants are not quite heathens I do assure you, Miss 
Tibbit ! The boy will be educated in good, sound 
Christian principles, and in a religion that is hap- 
pily free from the errors of Rome!” 

“Don’t dare speak to me,” struck in Miss Tib- 
bit, “of errors in the Infallible Church founded 
by Our Blessed Lord Himself. That is an im- 
pertinence — a blasphemy — I do not permit.” 


FINE CLAY 


335 


And she looked at him quite fiercely. 

Mr. Hurrell was moved to reluctant apology. 

“I’m sure I beg your pardon, Miss Tibbit. 
But there are many of us who, without wishing 
to be blasphemous, do indeed deny to your 
Church the infallibility you claim for her. We 
have wisdom and science on our side. Galileo 
” . . . But he stopped, fearing another out- 
burst. He had not reckoned with such fierce 
fanaticism. And he could afford to be gener- 
ous to this woman who had fought so gallantly 
. . . and had lost. 

Later in the day they drove to the hotel where 
Lady Strode was staying. She was waiting 
with her husband in their private sitting-room. 
Lord Strode had only arrived from Florence 
that afternoon. Mr. Hurrell was present at 
that meeting — at that poignant parting. Very 
few words were exchanged. Miss Tibbit did not 
break down; she was rigid and outwardly un- 
moved. Far back in her mind was the day when 
Major Pascoe had engaged her in Boulogne to 
take charge of his daughter; she seemed to see 
little Yolande sitting there quietly by the win- 
dow in the Pension Constantine. She had 
trained her and taught and served her, and for 
more than eight months she had successfully 
eluded the vigilance and unremitting search of 
every detective department in Europe, and had 
concealed Ambrose from the world. And now 
the game was up. She knew that when she saw 
Lady Strode put out her arms and gather her 
grandson to her breast. . . . 


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Her task begun in Boulogne fourteen years 
ago had come to an end. But as she moved 
slowly to the door, having made her last fare- 
well, Ambrose broke free from his grandmother 
and with a wild cry followed her. 

“Tibby — Tibby — my darling old Tibby 1” . . . 

He hurled himself sobbing into her arms. 
She held him to her, weeping scalding tears. 
Then she released him, whispering: “Don’t cry, 
darling. . . . Remember to be a good boy — 
remember to pray” . . . and with those words 
Miss Susan Tibbit went out into a lonely and 
uncompanioned world. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


A mbrose was overwhelmed with grief. He 
continued to cry in the loud, abandoned 
way of children, when the very barriers of self- 
control are broken down, and sobbing becomes 
a mechanical action impossible to control or re- 
strain. 

“Dear . . . dear ...” murmured Lady 
Strode, “can he really have been so attached to 
this person?” The physiognomy of Miss Tib- 
bit had struck her as more likely to produce awe 
than affection in the heart of a child. 

“Tibby . . . Tibby ... I want Tibby.” . . . 

“Don’t cry, Ambrose,” said Lord Strode. 
“You are going in the train to-night. And if 
you cry like this you will be ill and unable to go.” 

“I don’t want to go in the train ... I want 
Tibby!” . . . came the despairing wail. 

“My dear — I am afraid he has been terribly 
spoilt,” said Lord Strode. His first impression 
of his grandson had been one of grievous disap- 
pointment. He had always expected another 
Robin — big for his age, sturdy, flaxen-haired and 
blue-eyed, the typical Anglo-Saxon child. Not 
this little slim, dark thing, so different from his 
own two sons at the same age. That mop of 
dark silken curls was in need of the scissors. 
The somber eyes — disfigured now with those 


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passionate tears, — the dark olive complexion, the 
absence of color, the small slight figure, lean and 
lithe, struck him as altogether foreign and un- 
English looking, and he greatly deplored it. 
Lady Strode looked wistfully for any likeness to 
Gifford as she stroked the silken black locks. 
But there was little or none. She remembered 
the one photograph she had ever seen of Yo- 
lande, found among Gifford’s papers after his 
death, and bearing the date of their marriage. 
It had been taken in London just before that 
event, and it had given perhaps better than 
photographs generally do, a vivid impression of 
that soft dark arresting beauty, the individual 
charm, the suggestion of youth and innocence. 
Yes, the child resembled her, although he was 
not at all pretty. It is not to be denied that both 
Lord Strode and his wife would have been bet- 
ter pleased to have found a thoroughly British- 
looking grandchild. Robin fulfilled their ideal 
so completely that they could have wished this 
tiny sobbing stranger had resembled him. Yet 
. . . Gifford’s son was at last in her arms, and 
she felt a strange and devout thankfulness. 
Sobbing, angry and reluctant . . . but still hers 
to have and to keep. Oh, she would soon teach 
him to love her! . . . After all, he was quite an 
attractive little boy in spite of his odd clothes 
and long hair. The liquid dark eyes and fine 
small patrician features compensated somewhat 
for the plump and rosy cheeks, the blue eyes and 
flaxen hair she had hoped for. She could under- 
stand from the child how beautiful the mother 
must have been. More beautiful than the old 


FINE CLAY 


339 


photograph, a little faded and old-fashioned, yet 
vividly portraying that alluring loveliness which 
had held Gifford captive against all the counsels 
of prudence during the last five years of his life. 

But in after years Ambrose visualized those 
first days apart from Tibby as a period of abso- 
lute and complete and almost terrifying dark- 
ness. Before that epoch there was a stretch of 
gray, sad enough it is true, which separated him 
from that glad period which held the beloved and 
remembered and beautiful form of his mother. 
She was always associated in his mind with the 
splendid Sicilian days, full of hot fierce sunshine, 
of palms waving lustrously against vivid blue 
skies, of scented orange-blossom, of fire-flies that 
illuminated the night with their wandering bright 
flames. Especially he could recall the sunny 
loggia where his mother always played with him. 
Of her he could never remember anything but 
love — a love which enveloped him like some soft 
and exquisite aura. No harsh words broke the 
radiance of those baby reminiscences. It seemed 
to him then as if he had never been naughty — 
that goodness was the only possible course open 
to him; he had experienced only happiness. 
Never a naughty or high-spirited child, his very 
rare fits of rebellion or disobedience were always 
brief, and he had been always with those who 
understood and forgave, and grieved over these 
little lapses, which was the most terrible punish- 
ment that could have been meted out to him. A 
tender little world — so full of love and affection 
that he had imagined all the rest of the world 
must resemble it. 


340 


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First there was the long journey. They trav- 
eled straight through to Paris, and the blackness 
and fierce rushing through the night shook the 
child’s nerves to pieces. He was unused to trav- 
eling, and the emotions of the day had made him 
sick and ill. He had not tasted food, but had 
rejected all offers of nourishment. Lady Strode 
was supremely patient; she dimly guessed that 
only by great kindness could this child be won. 
She occupied a compartment with Ambrose and 
an English nurse, whom she had engaged to look 
after him. All through the night she could hear 
that desolate sobbing. In the morning he could 
scarcely be induced to partake of the coffee and 
rolls which were brought to him. He wailed for 
Tibby’s protective presence. He felt himself in- 
finitely deserted. . . . They were all powerless 
against this devouring nostalgia, for one so fa- 
miliar and so beloved. 

“I think,” said Lady Strode in despair, “that 
Miss Tibbit would be shocked to know what a 
very naughty little boy you are.” 

Ambrose was startled. “I’m not a naughty 
boy. ... I want my darling Tibby.” . . . He 
began to speak in voluble Italian, which lan- 
guage was still more natural to him than his 
own. He could evidently express himself 
more decisively and more forcibly through this 
medium. 

“My dear — I don’t understand a word of what 
you are saying. You must talk English,” said 
Lady Strode, amazed at the eloquent volubility 
of the baby utterances. 

For all answer he flung himself face down- 


FINE CLAY 341 

wards on the seat and sobbed with increased vio- 
lence. “I want Tibby” ... he wailed. 

Lady Strode bad never in her life had so try- 
ing a j ourney. It seemed to her that an eternity 
had passed before she saw the welcome gates of 
Merrywood open to admit her carriage. She 
was tired out, and felt that she would be thank- 
ful to see Ambrose safely tucked up in bed. 
Robin was to be there to try and make him feel 
at home, and their two cots had been placed in 
the room that was to serve as a night-nursery. 
By this time Ambrose was spent and exhausted 
with emotion. He was quiet enough and seemed 
to be half asleep when they drove from the sta- 
tion at a late hour. The stars were shining in 
that dark, soft and tranquil April sky ; there was 
a young moon, and the great bare downs seemed 
to be slumbering like released sentinels. She 
was glad to be back — glad, too, that their long 
search had been crowned with success, and that 
in their safe keeping was little Ambrose, the only 
child of their beloved son Gifford. 

Ambrose was kept in bed most of the next 
day; he was very tired and listless, and slept 
most of the time. Robin was told not to talk to 
him or go near him, as it was necessary that he 
should not be disturbed nor excited. 

In the evening he awoke, and seeing the nurse, 
a stranger, sitting near his cot, he suddenly re- 
membered the incident of the journey — that 
long, dark, endless rushing in the train — and 
from thence his mind rapidly traveled back to 
Miss Tibbit, who had been left behind. And he 
had not said his prayers. 


342 


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Yes — he had cried a great deal. It was 
naughty to cry like that. But he had wanted 
Tibby — and Tibby had been left behind. Tears 
gathered in his eyes, but he tried to repress them. 

“Please give me my beads,” he said to the 
nurse. 

“Go to sleep, Master Ambrose. You can’t 
have your beads to-night. Her ladyship left 
word that you were to be very quiet.” ... 

“I will go to sleep,” said Ambrose, “when I 
have said my prayers. But I must say them 
first. Please give me my beads.” 

“You can’t have them, Master Ambrose,” said 
the nurse firmly. 

“Is he to have them, Mrs. Foote?” she said, 
turning to the old housekeeper, who had just 
stolen upstairs to have a look at “Mr. Gifford’s” 
son. 

“Nasty foreign things,” said Mrs. Foote, “all 
of a piece with their heathenish ways and wor- 
shiping graven images ! But if they’ll quiet him 
I’d give them just for to-night, as you’d give a 
baby a comforter. Take them away again when 
he’s asleep, for his lordship don’t hold with them, 
no, nor her ladyship either.” 

“How does he come by them?” inquired the 
nurse, who was new to Merrywood. She put the 
brown rosary into the child’s hands, and he, clos- 
ing his eyes, began to slip the beads through his 
thin little fingers. 

Mrs. Foote shook her head sagely. 

“His mother was a Papist,” she said in an 
undertone of concentrated horror; “but he’ll be 


FINE CLAY 


343 


brought up a good God-fearing Protestant now, 
and he’ll learn the commandments!” 

“One Our Father on the big beads,” mur- 
mured a very sleepy and contented voice from 
the bed, “then ten Hail Mary’s! One Glory be 
when you come to the big bead again. ... I’m 
going to say the Sorrowful Mysteries for mama’s 
soul . . . and for all the Holy Souls in Purga- 
tory. . . . Mama and Tibby both liked the Sor- 
rowful Mysteries best. . . . But I like the 
J oyful ones . . . because Our Lord was a little 
boy then. And I’m quite sure I would rather 
have been a shepherd than a king; for the shep- 
herds saw the angels and a great host of Heaven 
... it must have been a glorious sight.” . . . 

“Bless me, what an old-fashioned little piece,” 
murmured Mrs. Foote. “What’s put such ideas 
into his head, I wonder? Well, well, he’ll soon 
forget all about his beads — that’s one comfort! 
Her ladyship will see that he’s brought up a good 
Protestant — she’s a staunch Low Churchwoman, 
same as me!” And she went out of the room. 

The sleepy murmur from the bed was still 
audible. “Hail, Mary , full of grace J the Lord 
is with thee . . . blessed art thou among 
women ” ... It was still going on when a few 
minutes later Lady Strode came into the room 
to pay a visit to her grandson before going down 
to dinner. 

“Has he been quiet?” she asked. 

“Yes, my lady. When he woke up, he asked 
for his beads — and he’s still saying them. I 
think he will be asleep in a few minutes.” 


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“Oh, but he mustn’t have beads,” said Lady 
Strode. “I’m afraid I must take them away.” 
. . . She approached the bed and for a few mo- 
ments listened to that sleepy murmur: “Pray 
for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. 
Amen ” . . . 

“Ambrose, dear,” she said, “give me those 
beads. You must go to sleep.” 

Ambrose clutched his rosary firmly. 

“Please — I haven’t finished only three mys- 
teries. I’m saying the Sorrowful ones to-night.” 
He rolled the r in the word sorrowful. 

“Ambrose, dear — you must be a good obedient 
little boy, and give me those beads when I tell 
you to. Where is his golly wog, nurse?” 

It was before the advent of the Teddy-bear, 
but Ambrose, unused to gollywogs, had been 
seized with a chattering fear of the dreadful 
black face and the thought of such a bed-fellow 
filled him with terror. He clutched the beads 
still more firmly, and gave a shriek as the nurse 
approached him with that fearsome form. 

“I want my beads!” cried Ambrose. “I want 
my beads!” 

He flung the gollywog upon the floor. Lady 
Strode unclasped the tiny fingers and took the 
rosary away. 

“Not to-night, Ambrose,” she said. “I’m sur- 
prised that you should be so naughty. You 
shouldn’t let Robin see what a naughty boy you 
can be.” 

“I’m not naughty,” said Ambrose; “it isn’t 
naughty to say prayers.” Again he rolled the r. 


FINE CLAY 


345 


This peculiarity of his speech was always more 
pronounced when he was excited. 

His sobs broke forth afresh, there was anger 
as well as grief in his reiterated cry of: “I want 
my beads.” . . . 

Into the midst of this scene there entered his 
grandfather. Lord Strode was just going down 
to dinner when he heard screams emanating from 
the long, distant passage where the nurseries 
were situated. 

“What a tiresome child that is!” he thought 
to himself. “I hope he will settle down soon, or 
we shall all be worn to a shadow!” 

“Why, Ambrose, what on earth’s the matter? 
What has he been doing, my dear?” He turned 
to his wife. 

“I want my beads. She’s tooked them away. 
. . . And Tibby told me I wasn’t never to forget 
to say my prayers.” . . . 

“You can’t have your beads,” said Lady 
Strode in a firm, but patient voice. “We don’t 
pray to beads here. You must forget what Miss 
Tibbit taught you. It is very wrong to pray to 
beads.” 

Ambrose made no reply, but he made a sud- 
den spring towards his grandmother and 
snatched the rosary out of her hand. Words 
pelted forth: “Go away, Grannie. I will have 
my rosary! It isn’t wrong to pray. Tibby told 
me to! I want Tibby— and I want my beads!” 

He sat up in bed, breathless, defiant, his cheeks 
flaming and his eyes ablaze. 

This was altogether too much for Lord Strode. 


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“No — my dear Eleanor — you must leave him to 
me. He mustn’t be allowed to have them, and 
he must learn not to behave like that.” 

“Oh, do let me manage him, John. Don’t be 
too severe!” she pleaded. 

But he gently pushed his wife aside, and tak- 
ing the beads with considerable roughness from 
Ambrose, he laid them on the table, and then re- 
turned to the cot. The cries and screams were 
redoubled as the treasure was forfeited a second 
time. 

“Give me a strap, nurse,” said Lord Strode in 
a cold voice. 

“Oh, don’t punish him, John. He’s still feel- 
ing strange. He will be a good boy now, won’t 
you, Ambrose?” 

“Be quick, nurse,” said Lord Strode. 

The strap was brought, and he administered a 
number of sharp blows upon the little hands; 
they evoked a fresh outburst of screams. 

“That is enough, John . . . don’t punish him 
any more,” said Lady Strode entreatingly. 

The last blow was an expression of his rising 
anger and fell with stinging force. Ambrose, 
who had never been whipped in his life, gave a 
shrill, despairing shriek. But he was conquered. 
The pain had cowed him into submission. He 
lay sobbing in his cot, his face buried in the pil- 
lows. His heart was beating violently with the 
pain and terror he felt; he panted like a wounded 
animal. 

“Now you know what will happen to you, 
Ambrose, when you are a naughty boy,” said 
Lord Strode. 


FINE CLAY 347 

He left the room with his wife. She was pale, 
too, and trembling. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry you whipped him,” she said; 
“he is so little, and I want him to learn to love 
us.” . . . 

“He won’t love us any the less,” said Lord 
Strode; “you can see he’s quite undisciplined. 
It won’t do him any harm and the sooner he learns 
to be obedient the better. I never saw such a 
little fury!” 

When the nurse had gone down to her supper, 
and the room was almost in darkness, Ambrose, 
who was still sobbing fitfully, heard a little move- 
ment. Opening his eyes, he could just distin- 
guish a small figure clad in blue pyjamas stand- 
ing near him. 

Robin’s fair hair was tumbled, and his blue 
eyes were very bright. 

“Rotten luck for you getting licked like that,” 
he said, “especially the first day. But you asked 
for it, you know — yelling and screaming for 
those potty beads!” 

He took one of the thin brown hands in his; 
it was still hot to the touch, and there were red 
weals where the blows had fallen. 

Ambrose looked at him. The voice at least 
was kind, although he seemed to be condemning 
him for foolishness. 

“Have you said your rosary to-night?” he 
asked. 

“No — I haven’t got one, and I shouldn’t know 
how to say it. It’s quite true what Aunt Elea- 
nor said — we don’t pray to them here.” 


348 


FINE CLAY 


“Does he beat you too?” He began to regard 
Robin as a companion in misfortune. 

“Oh, no,” said Robin. “You see, I am only 
here on a visit — and I’ve got a mother — she 
might kick up a fuss if he did!” 

“Then why does he beat me?” 

“Oh, well, you are his grandson — and he can’t 
let you yell like that. You must learn to do 
what he tells you — then he’ll always be decent 
to you !” 

Robin was not seven yet, but he had been to 
a day school and could speak schoolboy slang 
with surprising ease. 

“Shall I always be beaten here? Tibby never 
beat me.” . . . 

“Oh, no — you won’t be licked if you do what 
you’re told. But Uncle John is very strict. I 
advise you to try and please him. Good-night.” 

Ambrose put up two thin little arms and drew 
Robin’s face down to his. 

“I love you, Robin,” he said simply. 

“Oh, rot!” said Robin. “Still, I’m awfully 
sorry you got licked like that.” He slipped 
away and climbed back into his own cot. But 
under the tranquilizing influence of this unex- 
pected sympathy, Ambrose turned over and went 
quietly to sleep. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


Co beads were wrong. So wrong and so 
^ wicked, that you were whipped if you cried 
for them; and then they were taken away and 
you never saw them again. You were a bad boy, 
and you were told to forget what Tibby had 
taught you. What would they say if they knew 
Tibby had told him to say Five Mysteries every 
day for his darling mother? The best plan 
would be to say the prayers in a whisper and 
count them carefully, as you hadn’t got the beads 
any more. ... No one would hear, and Tibby 
had never said it was Wrong. 

Then he invented a plan by which the prayers 
might easily be counted. Five fingers on each 
hand — that when put together made a whole 
decade. The little fingers must fulfil the double 
purpose of the big beads, and the first and the 
last of the ten small beads. One must always 
remember to begin with the little fingers, and in 
this way you could say the rosary quite well, al- 
though the beads had been taken away and hid- 
den from you. . . . 

He did not ask for them again. But the small 
fingers served, and every night, when he was 
tucked up in his cot, he would hide his head under 
the bed-clothes and say the Five Sorrowful Mys- 
teries for his mother who was now in Heaven, 

349 


350 


FINE CLAY 


and who perhaps had seen Our Lady and her 
Blessed Son. . . . And Lady Strode was quite 
satisfied that her husband’s treatment had, after 
all, been wise, and that at such an early age it 
was easy to eradicate Error. 

On Sunday he went to church with his grand- 
parents and Robin. If the weather was fine 
they walked across the Park, as it was not very 
far. Church was a big bare building with rows 
and rows of pews covered with red cushions, and 
there were great red hassocks on which to put 
your feet. There was no priest in shining vest- 
ments, such as there had always been in Rome 
and in the dim Palermo days, but a very old man 
wearing a white surplice read some long prayers. 
Once during the service Lord Strode would 
emerge from his almost slumbering attitude in 
the pew, and go to the lectern and read the Sec- 
ond Lesson. Sometimes the people prayed 
aloud, but the prayers were quite unfamiliar 
except the Our Father, which was not even quite 
the same. There were no pictures nor statues 
nor crucifixes, but a number of slabs, brass or 
marble, hung on the walls, all of which seemed 
to bear this inscription at the top: Sacred to 
the Memory. . . . There was no Tabernacle on 
the Altar with beautiful white and gold curtains, 
and a red lamp burning and winking in front of 
it. Nor was there any holy-water stoup in which 
to dip your hand as you came in. The first time 
he went he genuflected before entering the pew, 
but Lord Strode pulled him quickly to his feet, 
saying: “Don’t do that here!” And when 
Ambrose knelt down and crossed himself he said 


FINE CLAY 


351 


again very sternly: “Never do that, Ambrose!” 
and his pale eyes flashed just as they had done 
when he struck him with the strap. So these 
things were Wrong too. He kept very still, 
kneeling when his grandparents knelt, sitting 
when they sat, standing when they stood. Twice 
during the service every one stood up and sang. 
Once the man in the white surplice got up into 
the pulpit and preached. Ambrose was deeply 
interested in the sermon. It was about the 
Miracle of the Loaves and Fishes. But some- 
times he got tired of listening to the sermon, 
which was generally very long, and he almost fell 
asleep. He was glad when every one rose to go. 
This time he did not attempt to genuflect, for 
no one else did, and perhaps it didn’t matter so 
much, since there was no Tabernacle. Only he 
wished there had been a statue of Our Lady; he 
would have liked to see her again in her beautiful 
shining robe, and the crown of stars above her 
head, and the Divine Child in her arms. He 
wanted to beg her to take him under her robe, 
as she did the little dead children . . . since he 
had no mother now, and no Tibby to take care 
of him. 

When the Easter holidays were over Robin 
went away. Ambrose missed him very much. 

Once every month he went to church with 
nurse in the afternoon, instead of with his grand- 
parents in the morning. There was a service for 
children, and all the children in the village were 
present. They sang a great many hymns. But 
there was never any mention of Our Lady, and 
Ambrose wondered why. He found courage 


352 FINE CLAY 

one day to whisper to a little girl who was sitting 
near him: 

“Don’t we ever say ‘Hail, Mary’?” 

She looked mystified. 

“Don’t we ever say what?” 

“ ‘Hail, Mary.’ It is a prayer, you know.” 

“Never heard of it.” 

Ambrose was deeply perplexed. Later, he 
asked a bigger girl — she was so much older she 
would be sure to know. 

“Oh, it’s a prayer to the Virgin Mary, isn’t 
it?” she said, slightly surprised. “We don’t 
pray to her, but the Catholics do. I expect 
that’s what you’re thinking of!” 

“Aren’t you a Catholic?” 

“No — I’m Protestant — Church of England, 
you know.” 

No one was “High Church” in Merry wood; 
the living was in Lord Strode’s own gift, and he 
invariably chose men of sound and rather narrow 
Evangelical principles. 

She added after a pause : 

“It’s awfully wicked to be a Catholic, and 
worship images and the Virgin Mary!” 

He was beginning to understand. It was 
wrong and wicked, and that was why you were 
punished. Still, Tibby had not thought it 
wrong. He remembered her hurried, tearful 
words in St. Peter’s, just before he had been 
taken away to England. He remembered his 
promise to her. And because there was no mak- 
ing the two outlooks agree, Ambrose compro- 
mised. He said his own old prayers regularly 
and secretly; he used his fingers instead of the 


FINE CLAY 


353 


beads. But he risked no more punishment, and 
he did not tell even Robin of those secret beauti- 
ful prayers which he whispered nightly under the 
bed-clothes when he was supposed to be asleep. 

Lady Strode had herself superintended the 
unpacking of his little trunk, prepared to con- 
fiscate anything that might savor of Rome. She 
came across a little faded photograph. It w T as 
the only one Miss Tibbit possessed of Yolande, 
and it had been taken long ago in Boulogne days 
when she still wore her hair falling like a dark 
cloud over her shoulders. It had gone to Tibby’s 
heart to part with it, for it was very like her. 
She had looked almost as young the day she lay 
dead in Palermo. . . . 

“Who is that?” said Lady Strode. 

“That is Mama,” said Ambrose. He kissed 
the picture and burst into sudden tears. “My 
darling Mama — she is in Heaven now. But 
Tibby said she thought the Madonna would pro- 
tect me under her robe, just as if I were one of 
the little dead children she takes care of, because 
they have never been without their mothers be- 
fore.” 

She was silent. He went on dreamily: 

“I saw a statue of her once, and she wore a 
blue robe and she was gathering the little chil- 
dren under j^he shelter of it. And she wore a 
crown, and there were stars over her head.” His 
eyes widened. “And Tibby said it was because 
she took such great care of the Infant Jesus when 
He was a baby and kept Him from feeling cold 
in the manger, and that is why He lets her take 
care of the little children when they die, because 


354 


FINE CLAY 


they might be afraid of going alone ... for the 
first time . . . into the dark without their moth- 
ers.” 

During this recital Lady Strode did not say a 
word. She listened attentively, and felt infi- 
nitely touched by the childish faith he displayed. 
“But dear,” she said at last, “it is better not to 
talk about such things. We don’t have statues 
of her here. And it might make your grand- 
father angry if he heard you talk like that.” 

“But you’re not angry?” he said. 

“No — I’m not angry, but I like you to try and 
please him.” 

Time doubtless would bestow alms for obliv- 
ion, and the old impressions would fade imper- 
ceptibly from his mind, atrophied from long 
disuse. There was nothing that even savored of 
Catholicism within many miles of Merrywood. 

Ambrose’s luggage revealed little. There was 
an Italian prayer-book with large print; there 
was a Garden of the Soul in English, and a Cate- 
chism also in English, all of which were immedi- 
ately confiscated. 

“English food will do a lot for him,” said Lord 
Strode, “he is very small for his age and much 
too thin. They feed children absurdly abroad. 
Late dinners and wine — no wonder they are such 
puny little things! He must have porridge and 
milk puddings and lots of bread and butter. I 
don’t suppose he’s ever eaten a good slice of roast 
beef!” 

He made this speech at dinner. He was ex- 
cessively fastidious about his own food, and had 


FINE CLAY 


355 


even sent his chef to Paris to be trained. Still 
the first sight of Ambrose had given him a strong 
sense of disappointment. The offending clothes 
— of poor Tibby’s fashioning — had been thrown 
away, and a complete new outfit had been sent 
down from a big London shop. Ambrose looked 
very charming in his little soft silk shirts, and 
brown knee-breeches and stockings. His hair 
had been cut, though Lady Strode would not 
have it closely cropped as yet; she said it would 
make his face look too thin and pinched. But 
the food was a great trial to him. Though he 
enjoyed the bread and butter and fruit, he found 
the oatmeal porridge and milk puddings poor 
substitutes for the macaroni, spaghetti and de- 
licious omelettes to which he had always been 
accustomed — even in their most frugal days — in 
Italy. He did his best to eat, and at first his 
nurse did not insist nor even scold too much when 
he failed. 

He laid down his fork one day at luncheon. 
The slice of underdone beef, the unaccustomed 
cabbage, had filled him with a sense of nausea. 
He envied Robin, who was sitting opposite to 
him at the big nursery table, eating in great con- 
tentment. ‘‘Please ... I can’t eat this,” he 
said politely. He did not wish to hurt any one’s 
feelings. And Tibby had been strict about eat- 
ing; she had not allowed him to leave anything 
on his plate. 

“Eat it up, Master Ambrose,” said Nurse, 
“you’ll get nothing else till you’ve finished that. 
How will you ever grow up a big strong boy like 
Master Robin if you don’t eat your dinner?” 


356 


FINE CLAY 


He made another and more valiant attempt, 
but it was unavailing. At last she took his plate 
away, and placed in front of him a dry and rather 
milkless rice pudding. 

“I think I cannot be hungry,” he said, when 
this had shared the fate of the meat; “I would 
have liked very much a cup of bouillon . Often 
I had only that for my dejeuner with a dish of 
vegetables, perhaps, or some macaroni.” 

“But you’re in England now — not in those 
horrid cut-throat foreign parts,” said Nurse. 
“You must learn to eat what English boys do!” 

Suet pudding was another severe trial; so, in 
its way, was boiled mutton. The change of food 
and climate made Ambrose look more ill and 
puny than before. It was very cold at Merry- 
wood all through the month of May that year, 
but there was no fire in the nursery, nor in 
the rigorously ventilated night-nursery. Lord 
Strode believed in bringing up children, espe- 
cially boys, to be hardy. He made no allowance 
for this child who from his cradle had been deli- 
cate, and who had lived always in a mild southern 
climate. He missed the sunshine which he had 
always known, and for which the comparative 
luxury of his present surroundings compensated 
ill. He learned to ride, and it pleased Lord 
Strode to find that he was not at all afraid. 
“But I have often ridden a mule,” he explained 
with great gravity. The little Shetland pony 
seemed to him strangely small — almost a toy. 

When Ambrose was seven years old he was 
taken to London to spend a few weeks. The big 


FINE CLAY 


357 


house in Prince’s Gate was not often inhabited, 
for both Lord Strode and his wife disliked town. 
But she had not been very well, and had to un- 
dergo a new electrical treatment, so they all left 
Merrywood and took up their abode in Prince’s 
Gate towards the end of April. Ambrose liked 
London — the stir and movement of the traffic- 
crowded streets, the motors that were just then 
beginning to be fairly common sights, gliding in- 
comprehensibly among the carriages and cabs 
and carts. He liked, too, the wonderful shops, 
bright, crowded, full of interesting things. 
Often he walked with his nurse down the Bromp- 
ton Road, though, as a rule, he was taken into the 
Park. And one day, when they were passing a 
large gray building by the roadside, he caught a 
whiff of incense. 

Few things bring back the past in the same 
vivid way as a particular perfume, whether of a 
flower or not. The incense carried Ambrose 
back to Italian days ; he stopped short and looked 
wistfully up at the great building. An over- 
powering desire to enter it seized him. Dim as 
his memories were now becoming that faint per- 
fume arrested him. And at that moment his 
nurse’s attention was temporarily diverted to 
something passing in the street. He slipped 
away — he was always lithe as an eel — and fled 
up the wide and shallow steps into the church. 
It was very large — much bigger than the church 
at Merrywood — and it seemed very full of peo- 
ple. He went rapidly towards the altar, which 
was a blaze of light and dazzled his eyes. On 
one side he could see an altar of beautiful pale 


358 


FINE CLAY 


marbles with a statue of Our Lady holding the 
Divine Child in her arms. He genuflected and 
knelt down upon a prie-dieu, bowing his head in 
his hands. 

The white curtains of the Tabernacle were 
drawn back, and above the altar, surrounded by 
a ring of shining lights, was the gleaming mon- 
strance with its Treasure. Looking up he saw 
the blurred clouds of acrid silver smoke issuing 
from the thurible; he heard the majestic chant of 
O salutaris and then of the Tantum ergo , sung 
by boys’ voices of surpassing and thrilling sweet- 
ness. It struck a chord in his memory, linking 
the present with that remote past whose hold 
upon him was becoming ever more and more 
faint, in the web of forgotten vision. With a 
sob he hid his face in his hands. 

The child’s nature, starved and stunted, ex- 
panded under the influence of that sudden over- 
whelming grace. For the moment he felt as if 
he must die; his heart seemed incapable of ab- 
sorbing so much joy. He was among friends. 
He was close to the Blessed Sacrament — so close 
that an infinite consolation seemed to touch him 
and raise him. He was again in that Divine 
Presence from which he had so long been ex- 
iled. Tibby’s words came back to him. “Place 
your whole trust and confidence in the Sacred 
Heart of Our Blessed Lord. Pray always to 
His Blessed Mother to keep you close to her 
Dear Son ” Ambrose did not entirely lose con- 
sciousness, but after a few minutes he had no real 
cognizance of the people around him. Nor did 
he feel any more as if he were enclosed in the 


FINE CLAY 


859 


four walls of a church. His childish soul, so 
curiously mature in many ways, was filled to 
overflowing with strange mystical joys. He was 
acutely aware of the ineffable nearness of the 
Divine. It was as if an overflowing cup had 
been put to his lips; he drank deeply. The frail 
quivering body remained there in an attitude of 
tense devotion. From that hour it would be im- 
possible to think that he ever knew again that 
starvation, that aridity, which had been his por- 
tion. When he came back slowly to a conscious- 
ness of material things he was startled by the 
sharp ringing of a bell. The Host was uplifted, 
the Benediction was given; the Divine Praises 
were voiced by all present. People were begin- 
ning to get up and move away. Even now he 
was not alarmed at the thought of consequences. 
The lights upon the altar were being slowly ex- 
tinguished, and it stood there cold and white in 
its marble splendor. The pale silken curtains 
once more hid the door of the Tabernacle — that 
Holy of Holies wherein the Divine Prisoner lis- 
tened and consoled. 

“I am a naughty boy,” he hid his face in his 
hands; “I have run away from Nurse. But 
please forgive me, dear Jesus. I did so want to 
see You again. And You have given me Your 
Blessing. Make me a good boy. And please 
let me see You again sometimes.” The words 
came to his lips like fragmentary ejaculations. 
Then raising his eyes he saw the figure of Our 
Lady watching him from among the pale mar- 
bles of the delicate old Italian altar. He prayed 
passionately : 


360 


FINE CLAY 


“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for me. 
Take me under your robe as you do the little dead 
children. And I haven’t forgotten my rosary, 
only they have taken my beads away, so I have 
to use my fingers instead.” He repeated in a 
whisper the Our Father and Hail Mary . Yes, 
she loved little children and gathered them under 
her robe when they died lest they should feel 
afraid and alone, and thus she guided them into 
the Presence of her Son . . . because to her had 
been confided the care of the Christ Child when 
He lay little and helpless in the manger. 

Ambrose sobbed with a strange emotion that 
seemed more akin to joy than pain. He forgot 
Nurse — forgot that he had run away and left 
her; he remembered only what old Tibby had 
taught him two years ago. And vaguely — so 
vaguely that it seemed only like a splendid dream 
— he seemed to recall the convent chapel where 
he had knelt with his mother, day after day, in 
Palermo. . . . 

Suddenly he felt his arm seized, and looking 
up he saw his nurse’s red and angry face. 

She had been searching for him, never imagin- 
ing that he had taken refuge in the church; her 
alarm and anxiety increased her anger as she 
dragged him to his feet with no gentle hand. 

“Come away at once, Master Ambrose! You 
are a very naughty boy, and you shall go to bed 
the moment we get in. His lordship will be very 
angry with you — I shouldn’t wonder if he pun- 
ished you severely if he hears about it!” 

She held his hand tightly; her grasp hurt him. 
He followed her meekly to the door, then he 


FINE CLAY 


361 


broke free and with a sudden violent movement 
dashed towards the high stoup of holy water. 
Dipping his finger into it he crossed himself and 
genuflected. This was his last act of rebellion, 
and after that he went home quietly, and sub- 
mitted to being put to bed, which seemed a spe- 
cial indignity, as it was broad daylight. His 
spiritual experiences faded a little; he was too 
young to grasp all of their marvelous signifi- 
cance; they seemed part of that exquisite dream 
that linked his present life to the rich and beauti- 
ful past which held his mother and Tibby. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


T he nurse was reticent on the subject when 
questioned by Lady Strode as to Ambrose’s 
non-appearance in the drawing-room that even- 
ing. She was a little afraid of being dismissed 
for her lack of vigilance and her inability to con- 
trol her charge. Nor had she forgotten the epi- 
sode of the beads when Ambrose first came to 
Merrywood. 

“I put Master Ambrose to bed, my lady, be- 
cause he was naughty while he was out to-day,” 
she said, in reply to Lady Strode’s questioning. 

“I am sorry to hear that,” said Lady Strode; 
“you must tell him that I am very sorry, and that 
I shall not come and say good-night to him.” 

This message, duly delivered, was received 
with some sense of relief by the delinquent. 

“Did you say what I’d done?” he asked.- 
“I told her ladyship you had been naughty,” 
she said evasively; “lie down and go to sleep now, 
Master Ambrose.” 

But on the following day a lady who was call- 
ing, and who knew the child by sight, inadvert- 
ently disclosed the truth. 

“I saw your dear little grandson in the Ora- 
tory yesterday afternoon,” she said. 

“In the Oratory?” echoed Lady Strode, al- 
most dropping her cup in an amazement which 

362 


FINE CLAY 


363 


was not untouched with indignation. “Oh, you 
must have been mistaken — it couldn’t have been 
Ambrose! We never permit him to go there! 
You see, as a tiny child he was always abroad, 
and he picked up so many very deplorable ideas. 
But he has quite forgotten them now, only we 
have been very particular to keep him away from 
any contaminating influence. We have had him 
for nearly two years, and he has never heard 
anything of the kind even mentioned. His nurse 
has very strict orders about it.” 

She spoke with great assurance, nevertheless 
a strange misgiving filled her heart. She re- 
membered that he had been put to bed early last 
night for some unknown act of naughtiness dur- 
ing his afternoon walk, and she had not inquired 
into the precise nature of his misdemeanor. 

“Well, I must have been mistaken then. Only 
I certainly thought I saw him,” said her visitor. 
“He is such a very uncommon-looking child, 
with those enormous black eyes. He was kneel- 
ing near Our Lady’s altar, and my friend who 
was with me said what a very devout child he 
was !” 

“I must ask nurse about it,” said Lady Strode, 
“but I feel sure that she would not have per- 
mitted anything of the kind. He was alone, did 
you say?” 

“Yes — quite alone — and he was still there 
when we left.” 

Later, when her visitor had departed, she went 
up to the nursery. Ambrose was sitting at the 
table playing absently with a fort and some sol- 
diers. He never cared greatly for toys, but he 


364 


FINE CLAY 


was not allowed to read much as yet, although he 
could now do so with ease. 

He slipped down from his high-chair, and, go- 
ing up to her, kissed her dutifully. 

“I hope you have been a good boy to-day, Am- 
brose,” she said; “I was very sorry to hear you 
had to be punished yesterday.” 

“I have tried to be good to-day, Grannie,” he 
said, flushing. 

“And I hope you have told Nurse that you 
were sorry you were naughty yesterday.” 

“No,” said Ambrose. 

“Then you should have done so.” 

“But I was glad,” said the child; “glad that I 
runned away from her!” 

“Glad? Oh, you mustn’t talk like that, Am- 
brose! Where did you run to?” 

“Into a big, big church. A lovely church.” 
. . . His eyes were wide at the remembrance. 
But the confession made his heart thump. 

Lady Strode turned sharply to the nurse. 

“What church?” she asked. 

“I think they call it the Oratory, my lady,” 
she said, turning very red. 

“It was very wrong of you, Ambrose. You 
mustn’t come down to-night. You shall not be 
allowed to come down into the drawing-room for 
a whole week.” She rose in anger. So it was 
true. In spite of all their precautions this child 
of seven had outwitted them. Was it possible 
that he still remembered? 

“You will have to take better care of him than 
this,” she said to the nurse in a tone of ice, “or 
I shall have to find some one more trustworthy.” 


FINE CLAY 


365 


“Where’s Ambrose?” inquired Lord Strode. 

He came into the drawing-room about seven 
o’clock. He was dining out early and going to 
a new play. As a rule, he found a moment to 
come in and see his grandson. 

“He’s not coming downstairs to-night,” said 
Lady Strode. “I forbade it. He wasn’t very 
good yesterday.” 

“What has he been doing?” asked Lord Strode, 
indiff erently. 

“Oh; he ran away from nurse,” she said, try- 
ing to speak lightly. She did not wish to tell 
him the exact truth, for she considered that Am- 
brose had been sufficiently punished for yester- 
day’s escapade. 

“Ran away? Do you mean to say she lost 
him? My dear Eleanor, you had better dismiss 
her at once! It is most unpardonable! Where 
on earth did the boy get to?” 

“He . . . went into the Oratory” . . . said 
Lady Strode reluctantly. “But please don’t be 
angry with him, John. I don’t suppose he 
understood it was a Catholic church. Mrs. 
Steele saw him there. I think he has been 
punished quite enough — he was put to bed 
when he came in yesterday, and I am not go- 
ing to let him come down and play here for a 
week.” 

Lord Strode’s face was hard and set. 

“My dear, do you suppose he will care for 
those baby punishments ? I really can’t overlook 
this.” 

He moved towards the door. She tried to 
stop him. 


366 


FINE CLAY 


“Oh, John — please don’t hurt him! He 
really doesn’t understand.” 

“My dear, we can’t tell how much he remem- 
bers. I must put a stop to it, once for all. We 
mustn’t run any risks!” 

He went up into the nursery. Ambrose felt 
half afraid when he saw his grandfather ap- 
proach. He was always a little afraid of him, of 
his mocking ridicule as well as of his anger. 

Sending the nurse out of the room he said 
coldly : 

“Come here, Ambrose.” 

The child approached him, trembling. 

“You were very naughty yesterday, I hear. 
I am going to punish you.” 

Ambrose felt suddenly frightfully alone and 
small and helpless. His grandfather looked so 
tall, so powerful, so angry. In the big nursery 
there was a strange and awful silence. 

Ambrose’s face was very white. He felt sure 
now that he was going to be whipped. Both 
were perhaps thinking of the incident of the 
rosary. 

“I am going to whip you,” said Lord Strode. 

He seized the trembling little figure. The 
blows fell sharply. Once Ambrose screamed. 
At last, after a long time, he felt himself re- 
leased; he heard his grandfather say, as if from 
a long way off: “Now go straight to bed.” 

Once more he was left alone. He undressed 
and crept into bed, lying there quite motionless. 
And as in the past there remained in his mind a 
confusion of ideas. He had often been naughty 


FINE CLAY 


367 


and disobedient, and his nurse had put him to 
bed and no worse had ensued. What was there 
then in this last exploit which had aroused his 
grandfather’s anger — that terrible cold anger 
which he feared so greatly? 

Outside it was growing quite dark. The house 
was hushed into silence. Presently he slipped 
out of bed and went to the window. It was rain- 
ing, and the pavements gleamed like dark rivers 
in the lamplight. His heart, as well as his body, 
was sore with those harsh blows. He cried a lit- 
tle silently. And as he crouched there the door 
opened, and Lady Strode came into the room. 
She pulled a chair near the window, and, sitting 
down, drew him into her arms. She wanted to 
comfort him. She felt that he had been too se- 
verely punished. The scene had taken her back 
to Gifford’s childhood. 

“My dear Ambrose — I’m so sorry,” she said. 

“Oh, it doesn’t matter, Grannie,” he said, chok- 
ing back the tears. 

He looked up with large solemn eyes. 

“I’ve been beaten,” he said simply; “I w r ish he 
would tell me why.” 

She started a little. “Why, for running away 
from nurse. For being naughty and disobedient 
yesterday.” 

“Only that?” he asked a little curiously. 

“But, my dear, what other reason should there 
be? You must learn to be obedient, Ambrose, 
and then no one will punish you.” 

“But I wanted to be there — in that church,” 
he said, a little mystified. 

“You must only go to church when somebody 


368 


FINE CLAY 


takes you. And, you know, I have had to scold 
you for being naughty and restless in church at 
Merry wood.” 

“But that was different,” he said, still puz- 
zled. Either she was purposely miscomprehend- 
ing him or she did not understand. He wished 
that she could understand. 

“I’m always sorry when you have to be pun- 
ished,” she said. “You must try and be more 
like Robin.” 

She took him on her knee. 

“You won’t do it again, will you, dear? You 
see, it makes your grandfather very angry. 
Now you must go back to bed. I am sure you 
are very sorry.”. . . 

Was he sorry? He was not quite sure. He 
had been so happy yesterday that even to-day’s 
punishment had seemed almost worth while. 
Still, it had held dark, terrifying moments of 
sharp pain. He went back quietly to bed and 
lay awake for a long time. It was only when 
he began to pray that the relief of tears came. 
The Five Sorrowful Mysteries were long in the 
saying that night. But when he fell asleep he 
dreamed of Our Lady watching him tenderly, 
and beckoning to him to join the little dead chil- 
dren under her robe. . . . 

From that day Ambrose led two lives. One, 
visible, submissive, obedient, and the other in- 
terior and full of spiritual struggles and a nos- 
talgia that became at times almost insupportable. 
He had no guidance in that other life. Through 
that spiritual land he moved alone; they might 


FINE CLAY 


369 


and did prevent his body trespassing upon forbid- 
den territory, but they had no means of restrain- 
ing the soul’s swift and untrammeled flight. 
Of hidden sweetness he knew much, and it il- 
luminated his countenance so that even strangers 
were struck by the child’s eager, shining face 
with its curious look of mature intelligence. 

The nurse was dismissed and another and 
older one came to take charge of him. He was 
almost immediately sent back to Merrywood in 
her care, and he remained there while his grand- 
parents stayed on in town. During those early 
years he displayed always a sweet docility; his 
disposition, though not sunny like Robin’s, 
showed an equable gravity; but no one guessed 
that he was consciously going through a time of 
probation that almost killed him with longing. 
He prayed for some one to come — some one who 
should speak that beautiful, remembered lan- 
guage ; some one to whom he could make known 
that other hidden self. But no one came. He 
was to work his own way up in silence and sus- 
pense. 

For five years after that episode of the Ora- 
tory Ambrose scarcely left Merrywood, except 
for an annual visit to some quiet seaside resort, 
where he had no other playmate but Robin Lum- 
leigh. Tutors succeeded governesses, even as 
governesses had succeeded nurses; but when he 
was nearly twelve the question of sending him to 
school was seriously discussed. Under any other 
circumstances he would have gone to school, as 
his father had done, at the age of eight. But this 


370 


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was considered inexpedient. Now, however, he 
was sent to a preparatory school on the south 
coast, where Rex and GifF ord had both been edu- 
cated — an old-established place, where only a 
comparatively small number of boys were re- 
ceived. Lord Strode ascertained that there were 
no Catholic boys there to awaken those now long 
dormant memories. Ambrose was not particu- 
larly happy at school. His loneliness seemed 
still to wrap him round and separate him from his 
companions. Robin was there during his first 
term and then left to go to Eton. Robin was 
the head of the school and a very important and 
popular personage; he had not a great deal of 
time for befriending his cousin; still, he was kind 
to him whenever opportunity occurred. After 
he had left Ambrose formed one or two friend- 
ships, but they were never intimate ones. The 
other Self made a barrier between him and the 
rest of the world. One of the masters, a Mr. 
Standish, was kind to the boy. Ambrose was 
in his form; he liked him very much — perhaps 
better than any one else in the school. He had 
a feeling that if he could ever confide in any one 
it would be this man. Standish was about 
twenty-four; he had not long left Oxford; he 
was big and strong and keen about games. But 
he went away very suddenly in the middle of 
Ambrose’s third term, and his unexpected de- 
parture caused a good deal of not unnatural cu- 
riosity among the boys. Some said that he had 
had a row with the Head, others that he had been 
taken suddenly ill, but no one seemed to know 
the real reason. 


FINE CLAY 


371 


“Why’s Standish gone?” Ambrose asked a boy 
called Bertram, who had also been in the same 
form. 

“It’s a secret, you know” . . . said Bertram; 
“no one’s supposed to know. But he told me.” 

Ambrose had a scrupulous sense of honor. 

“Then if it’s a secret you can’t tell me,” he 
said. 

“I don’t believe he’d mind your knowing,” said 
Bertram; “you see, you were a bit of a pal of his. 
Only old Collins didn’t want all the school to 
know. He went away because he wants to be- 
come a Catholic, and he told me that perhaps 
later he should try and be a Catholic priest!” 

Ambrose gave an exclamation of surprise. 
“A priest?” he said. “A Catholic priest! Oh, 
I wish he had told me — I wish he had told me!” 

“Why, what difference could it make to you?” 
said Bertram. “Of course, old Collins couldn’t 
let him stop here after that. Some of the boys’ 
parents might object.” 

He sauntered away and Ambrose was filled 
with a sudden almost passionate jealousy of 
Bertram to whom Mr. Standish had confided his 
great secret. And it had mattered so little to 
Bertram, whereas it would have made all the dif- 
ference in the world to Ambrose ! This one who 
could have spoken his language and answered his 
questions and understood — just as his mother 
and Tibby had understood — and who could have 
told him so many things which he desired most 
passionately to know — had gone out of his life, 
and passing had made no sign. 

But the real truth of the matter had been re- 


372 


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vealed in that interview between the Head and 
Cyril Standish, a day or two before the latter’s 
departure. 

“I think it only right to tell you, sir, that I 
have definitely made up my mind to place myself 
under instruction with the intention of becoming 
a Catholic. Perhaps under the circumstances 
you would prefer that I should leave you?” 

Cyril Standish had a very quiet way of speak- 
ing, but it often gave additional significance to 
his words. 

Mr. Collins turned quite abruptly, as if he 
could hardly believe his ears. 

“Why, my dear Standish — this is very sudden ! 
A Catholic? Dear me — that’s a very serious 
step to take, and one which I’m afraid you will 
find will militate very seriously against your fu- 
ture prospects as a schoolmaster. The Catholics 
keep the education of their children so very much 
in the hands of religious orders — there’s hardly 
such a thing as a private lay school for boys. Of 
course, I’ve always known, and yes, I may say 
I’ve deplored, your very extreme views, but they 
are not uncommon in the Church of England to- 
day, and we must move with the times . . . move 
with the times, and all that sort of thing! But 
a Catholic — yes, that’s another pair of shoes 
. . . yes, yes, I’m afraid I could hardly keep you 
here under the circumstances. It would do a lot 
of harm to the school if it got about, and boys 
have such a way of finding out things. Lord 
Strode would certainly take his grandson, young 
Lumleigh, away — and, by the way, I’d rather 
you didn’t mention it to Lumleigh. They are 


FINE CLAY 


373 


very particular about him, because I understand 
bis mother was a Catholic, and he was brought 
up as one till he was five years old, and no Cath- 
olic can inherit the family money and property, 
so it’s important to keep this boy quite apart from 
— ahem! — any influence of the kind. Yes, I’m 
afraid I shall have to part with you, Standish. 
I suppose you’ve quite made up your mind? 
You wouldn’t like to have a good talk with Mr. 
Charlton first? He is an excellent Churchman 
and a thorough theologian — perhaps you are 
aware he is the author of that very able and con- 
vincing — I might say admirable — little work, 
‘The Case against Rome in a Nutshell’? Dis- 
poses in a quite wonderful way of the Petrine 
claim, and simply makes mincemeat of the dogma 
of Papal Infallibility. I’m sure he would help 
you in your difficulties.” 

“I am not in any difficulties, thank you, sir,” 
said Standish; “my way is quite clear. But I 
see that I cannot remain where I am, and I do 
not wish to delay taking the step. It is very kind 
of you to think of my future prospects, but I 
hope to become a priest.” 

The Head was now genuinely shocked. 

“A priest?” he repeated. “Oh, I should not 
take any rash steps of that kind just yet, Stan- 
dish. You are still young — you don’t know what 
you’re letting yourself in for. Mr. Charlton — a 
really broad-minded man — quite sympathetic 
with dissenters — would, I feel sure, be of great 
assistance. Let me write to him.” 

“No, thank you, sir.” 

“But a priest” . . . expostulated the Head. 


374 


FINE CLAY 


Again that slow, unwilling smile. 

“I may not be found worthy, sir.” . . . 

When he had gone the Head pondered dis- 
consolately over this strange and even eccentric 
young man. 

“Some one has been getting hold of him — a 
Jesuit, most likely — and yet I should have 
thought Standish a singularly level-headed 
chap,” he said to himself. “It’s a great loss to 
the school, but, of course, I can’t keep him after 
that. Especially with young Lumleigh here.” 

The instructions of Lord Strode, when he first 
placed Ambrose in Mr. Collins’s keeping, had 
been extremely explicit. Of course, there was 
very little danger now — so many years had 
passed since the boy had come in direct contact 
with the Errors of Rome; but one could not be 
too careful, and one never knew how far the 
Jesuits would keep their eye on a case of the 
kind. “But I think I thrashed all that nonsense 
out of him when he first came to us as quite a 
little chap,” added Lord Strode complacently, 
“and I’m glad to say he seems to have forgotten 
it all now!” 

With such a grandparent in the immediate 
background it was incumbent upon Mr. Collins, 
who stated in his prospectus that he prepared the 
Sons of Noblemen for Eton, Harrow, and Win- 
chester, to be more than usually careful. 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


A mbrose never quite forgot the sickening 
***“ sense of disappointment he experienced 
when he first heard the reason of Cyril Stan- 
dish’s departure. It seemed to him almost as if 
God had forgotten him, since help should have 
been so near, and he had not known it. Here 
had been his chance, and in his ignorance he had 
allowed it to slip by. Was there then no sign by 
which he could discern those who could help him ? 
Was it to punish him that he had been kept so 
blind with his eyes sealed? Once, some weeks 
later, he plucked up courage to say to Bertram: 

“I suppose you have not heard from S tan- 
dish ?” 

“No — he isn’t allowed to write to the boys. 
Rotten shame, isn’t it? But I mean to write to 
him next holidays. It’s a swindle his being sent 
off like that as if he’d done something wrong!” 

Bertram, however, never received any reply 
from Cyril Standish to that letter written in the 
holidays. It reached him when he was already in 
Rome. But he never forgot Ambrose Lumleigh 
in his prayers. He had had a strange notion that 
the boy was tormented with some obscure interior 
spiritual difficulty, and he had often wished it 
were possible to break down the barriers and 
question him. But something had always held 


376 


FINE CLAY 


him back. He feared to think of what he might 
find and awaken — perhaps something that he 
could not deal with alone. His own struggles 
and loneliness at that time made him singularly 
alive to the existence of spiritual difficulties in 
others. Perhaps some day he would come across 
him again in the freedom of the great world, 
apart from the restrictions and limitations of 
school life. 

Ambrose worked less well than usual for the 
rest of that term. He did not get his remove, 
which displeased his grandfather. He showed 
an increased apathy at games. The Head, who 
had an astute and vigilant eye, marked this fall- 
ing-off with some dismay. For the first time 
Ambrose had a very indifferent report. There 
was a lack of energy, of enthusiasm; an apathy 
and indolence which displayed itself alike in the 
class-room and in the playing-field. 

“You’ve got a nice report this time, Ambrose,” 
said Lord Strode. “Just listen to this!” And 
with savage sarcasm he read out some of the more 
damaging statements. 

Ambrose flushed. He felt deeply humiliated. 
Moreover, it was all quite true. Mr. Standish’s 
departure had disheartened him, and he had felt 
too discouraged to work, and had not liked his 
new form master. 

“I know — I am very sorry,” he said dispirit- 
edly. 

“Don’t roll your r’s like that. I wish you 
would learn to speak English.” This was an 
old source of offense. 

“Well, if you won’t work at school I shall take 


FINE CLAY 


S77 

you away,” said Lord Strode presently, “and 
you shall have a tutor at home. I’ll see that you 
work then. You shall have one more chance.” 

Ambrose did better the following term and re- 
mained at school for another year. Then he 
went to Eton, where he found Robin, and the 
two became great friends. Of late they had not 
seen much of each other, as during the holidays 
Robin had nearly always accompanied his 
mother abroad. She was much more delicate 
than she used to be, and had grown fanciful 
about her health. It amused Robin to go abroad 
with her. He was very much grown, and stood 
nearly six feet in height. He was a very strong, 
very handsome boy. Ambrose looked extremely 
small in comparison. His height was a great 
disappointment to his grandfather, whose own 
two sons had been very tall. Ambrose was small 
for fourteen, and thin and rather delicate-look- 
ing. Only once during his time at Eton did he 
come into collision with Lord Strode. This was 
on the subject of his confirmation. His tutor 
had written to ask if his grandfather wished him 
to be prepared for it. The subject was broached 
almost on the day Ambrose returned to Merry- 
wood for the holidays. Not for many years had 
Ambrose’s two lives been in such fierce conflict. 

“I hope,” said Lord Strode, “that you will at- 
tend very seriously to the matter. It is a very 
important occasion. Your dear father under- 
went a great change at the time of his confirma- 
tion.” 

What did the boy’s silence mean? There was 
something almost dogged and sullen about it. 


378 FINE CLAY 

“I cannot be confirmed. ... I am very 
sorry.” . . . 

“You will be confirmed whether you wish it or 
not,” said Lord Strode ; “we have attended most 
particularly all these years to your religious edu- 
cation. You must show us now that you are 
not without appreciation of all that has been done 
for you. Your grandmother and I both wish it.” 
His steel-like eyes flashed. 

Still the boy was silent, setting his lips. 
Never through all those years — years in which 
he had been arbitrarily separated from every- 
thing to do with his own religion — had he failed 
to say the Five Mysteries of the Rosary on his 
fingers when he went to bed at night. Thus he 
had not forgotten the prayers which Tibby had 
taught him — the prayers he had learned at his 
mother’s knee. 

“Well — what have you got to say?” 

“Only that it is impossible.” 

“Impossible?” Lord Strode frowned. 

“I mean ... I couldn’t be. It isn’t that I’m 
not grateful for all you have done for me.” 

“I must get Marston to give him a good talk- 
ing to,” said Lord Strode, when he had dismissed 
him with a few sharp and angry words. 

Mr. Marston was the Vicar of Merrywood, a 
rather muscular and sporting Christian with 
sound Evangelical views. Ambrose was sent 
down to the Vicarage one morning, rather dread- 
ing the interview but quite resolute. Mr. Mar- 
ston received him in his study, very cheery, 
hearty, and sympathetic, and full of sound com- 
mon sense. 


FINE CLAY 


379 


“Well, Ambrose, my dear boy, I’m delighted 
to see you. Getting on well at Eton, I hope? 
And how is Robin? Well, what’s all this about? 
You’re shirking confirmation, his lordship tells 
me? Well, well, there is no great harm in that — 
boys often do. . . . But you’ve no doubts of the 
faith, I hope?” 

“None at all,” said Ambrose. 

“Perhaps you think you’re not good enough? 
Well — we ought to be humble before Almighty 
God. Very praise-worthy scruple, if that’s your 
difficulty. But you mustn’t let it lead you into 
displeasing your grandfather, to whom you owe 
so much.” 

“That has nothing to do with my reason, Mr. 
Marston,” said Ambrose; “but I don’t wish to 
be confirmed. I have reasons, but I cannot tell 
them to any one.” 

“Well, I shouldn’t decide too quickly if I were 
you. Think it over and pray,” he added heart- 
ily. He shook the boy’s hand. Ambrose felt 
himself dismissed. 

He was in disgrace, in consequence, all 
through the summer holidays. He had refused 
confirmation so definitely that nothing could be 
done with him. Even Robin was unsympathetic 
when he came down to stay for a few days be- 
fore starting for Aix-les-Bains with his mother. 

“I’ve been confirmed,” he said; “there’s noth- 
ing to make a fuss about. Besides, every one 
is. And your hanging back like this is only an- 
noying Uncle John. You’d much better give 
in.” 

Ambrose flushed. 


380 


FINE CLAY 


“If I could I’d do it to please him,” he said 
obstinately, “but I simply can’t, Robin.” 

So he was in disgrace that summer. The sec- 
ond self became again a very vivid and real thing 
to him, but it was a substantial barrier between 
himself and his grandparents. He did not go to 
the seaside, and towards the end of August he 
fell suddenly ill. Before long the malady was 
diagnosed as typhoid fever. Like many old 
houses, Merrywood had not had its drains over- 
hauled for a great many years. Two nurses 
came from London. Lord Strode took alarm. 
Ambrose was forgiven, but this signified little to 
one tossing in high fever and muttering delir- 
iously. 

Lady Strode was almost beside herself with 
this new anxiety. She believed that this boy was 
going to die — as her own sons had died. There 
seemed to be a curse on the old house. She ac- 
cused herself of never having been sufficiently 
kind to him. In spite of all her resolutions she 
had never found courage to stand between him 
and her husband’s anger. They had always been 
too severe in their treatment of him. He had 
known so little real sympathy and kindness since 
he came to them. Once when she stole into the 
room to look at him, she found him moving his 
thin fingers in swift rotation, and uttering Latin 
words. 

(( A vc Maria — gratia plena . . . . Dominus 
tecum” . . . 

“What is he saying, nurse?” 

“I think he is praying, my lady. He seems 
to be trying to say the rosary on his fingers,” 


FINE CLAY 


381 


“Oh, no,” she said, “you must be mistaken. 
He has never had a rosary since he first came to 
us! He is a Protestant!” 

“He must have heard it somewhere,” said the 
nurse, carelessly; “I am a Catholic myself, and I 
thought he was one i” 

Lady Strode was shocked at this information. 

“Oh, I am sorry to hear that,” she said; “we 
don’t have any Catholics here — it isn’t allowed. 
I am afraid we shall have to ask you to go di- 
rectly you can be replaced.” 

Nurse O’Mara was an Irishwoman. She had 
taken a fancy to her patient, and wished that she 
could have stayed at Merry wood to help pull him 
through. She was on night duty, and it was im- 
possible to replace her until the next day, so she 
was left alone with him that night. 

“I hope he will sleep,” thought Lady Strode, 
“and he is too ill to learn anything from her 
now !” 

When the gray light of dawn crept into the 
room Ambrose opened his eyes. Near the bed 
sat the nurse in her blue print dress, with her 
white apron and neat Sister Dora cap. Her lips 
were moving and so were her fingers; a faint 
chink sounded. Ambrose flung out his thin, 
burning hand. 

“What are you doing?” he cried excitedly. 

“Hush, Mr. Lumleigh. I was only saying my 
prayers.” 

“But what prayers? What have you got in 
your hand?” 

She held up the rosary — a strong one with 
beads of black onyx and a silver crucifix and 


382 


FINE CLAY 


medal. He snatched it from her, and pressing 
the crucifix to his lips burst into a passion of 
tears. 

She was astonished and alarmed. 

“Oh, Mr. Lumleigh — you mustn’t excite your- 
self. You must keep very quiet, and try and go 
to sleep.” 

“Let me hold it,” he pleaded; “please don’t 
take it away. I’ll lie as still as possible if you’ll 
only let me have it. Let me say the Sorrowful 
Mysteries just once ... it will help me to go to 
sleep.” 

“Just once, then,” she said gently. She knew 
the power of those prayers to soothe and calm. 
Long before he had finished a single decade the 
boy lay quiet in a beautiful sleep. 

He held the rosary tightly clenched in his 
fingers ; she dared not risk disturbing him by try- 
ing to take it away. But his strange words filled 
her thoughts. They had said he was not a Cath- 
olic, but somewhere, at some time, he must have 
learned Catholic prayers and devotions. Here 
was a mystery — a mystery that she would never 
be able to solve since she was not acceptable at 
Merrywood on account of her religion. 

In the morning when he awoke she was no 
longer there. In his sleep the rosary must have 
dropped from his hand ; it was not there, she had 
perhaps taken it away. It could not have been 
a dream that he had held the precious thing in 
his hands, and had fallen asleep while he was still 
saying the first of the Five Sorrowful Mysteries. 

Another nurse was sitting beside him. 


FINE CLAY 383 

‘‘Where is nurse?” he said. “The one who 
was here last night?” 

“I don’t know, Mr. Lumleigh. Your grand- 
mother fetched her away just now.” 

“She hasn’t gone?” he asked. 

“I really don’t know.” 

“I hope she will come hack soon,” said Am- 
brose, “I liked her — she was very kind.” 

The day wore slowly on, but she did not return. 
Ambrose fretted silently. He had thought of 
innumerable questions that he wished to ask her. 
She had come and gone like a vision, bearing her 
precious treasure with her. And, as with Mr. 
Standish, the boy felt frustrated. Help had 
been so near ; this time he had known it, had rec- 
ognized it ... and let it slip past him. He 
turned his face to the wall and shed scalding tears. 

“A relapse,” said the doctor, finger on pulse. 

He looked grave. Lady Strode felt her heart 
sinking like a lump of lead. She had lost two 
sons, and she had learned to love this boy who 
had always been so aloof, so reserved, so unknow- 
able. 

“Where’s Nurse O’Mara?” 

“She has gone back to town,” whispered Lord 
Strode in reply. “We only discovered yester- 
day that she was a Catholic. I object very 
strongly to having Catholics in the house.” 

“It’s a pity you got rid of her. She was a very 
good nurse — understood the case well. He got 
on well while she was here.” 

“There are other nurses,” he said. 


384 


FINE CLAY 


“If you had asked advice,” said the doc- 
tor, “I should have warned you of the danger of 
changing at such a critical time.” 

“Danger?” Lady Strode caught at the word. 
Ambrose lay there, fever-flushed, muttering, 
moving his thin fingers. 

“He is worse, of course — his temperature is 
very high.” 

Her eyes filled with tears. 

“Has he anything on his mind?” 

“Not that I know of. He’s really a very good 
boy.” 

“Nothing troubling him?” 

“A boy of fourteen who has been cared for and 
guarded always?” Lord Strode almost scoffed 
at the idea. 

Gifford’s boy. . . . Yes, but he was also 
Yolande’s boy. And the grandson of the woman 
who, dying in the far-off Indian hill-station, had 
cried out to her husband to safeguard the re- 
ligion of their little girl. . . . 

The dead hand seemed to stretch across the 
twin gulfs of time and space. Thirty-three years 
ago. . . . Such a strong hand in death that had 
been in life so small, so frail, so clinging. . . . 
The hand that still held Ambrose in a grip of 
iron. Stronger than environment, stronger than 
education, stronger than all their efforts to con- 
quer it. . . . 

During the day the great London specialist 
came down to see the heir and hope of the Strodes. 
The players of the trivial drama waited in grim 
suspense. Lady Strode felt that neither of her 


FINE CLAY 


385 


two former experiences had held such a load of 
anguish. The boy was very dear to her ; dearer, 
perhaps, than her own sons had been; there was 
a tenderness, a docility, in his disposition, at once 
so tranquil and so grave, which they had com- 
pletely lacked. If she had not interfered when 
he had been subjected to harsh and severe treat- 
ment, it was because she honestly believed that it 
had been necessary. There were things that had 
to be eradicated from the boy’s mind. She had 
dreaded lest those sharp measures should have 
the effect of making Ambrose hate them. But 
looking back she was aware always of a sweet- 
ness, a patience, a docility, an absence of all re- 
bellion and bitter thought. And was it true that 
nothing had been of any avail? For the first 
time she envisaged the fact that Ambrose had 
not forgotten, that he still remembered. She 
had been afraid, she had suspected, and she had 
not dared speak nor question him. She had been 
aware, too, that the boy had been dominated by 
strange and exotic influences that disciplined and 
controlled him — things that were quite outside 
his daily life. Yes — he was Yolande’s son — the 
child of the woman whom Giff ord had loved and 
deceived, and loved until the end of his life. 
That was why he could never be the child of 
Merrywood tradition. She bent over him 
yearningly. “Ambrose . . . Ambrose . . .” 
She felt that her heart was breaking. 

He put out his arms. . . . “Mama. . . . 
Mama . . he said. 

And thus he floated into unconsciousness. . . . 

For three days and nights they fought at 


386 


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Merrywood for the life of the heir. At the end 
of that time Ambrose’s spirit fluttered back to 
earth — as it seemed to those anxious watchers — 
took possession with renewed vigor of its slender 
prison-house of clay, insisting, as youth will, 
upon its inherent right to live. A prolonged 
struggle, a fierce fight, a victory without triumph, 
broken-winged and inglorious . . . yet with the 
hosts of death scattered in confusion. 

He spoke only once on the night after the su- 
preme crisis. It was to Lady Strode, who, spent 
and weary, had never left him. 

“I knew I was very ill, perhaps dying,” he 
said; “I saw it in your faces. But I didn’t want 
to die . . . like this.” . . . 

Like what? . . . She did not dare question 
him. But she bent down and kissed him. “Dar- 
ling Ambrose,” she said; “my darling boy.” . . . 

He could feel her tears falling on his face. 


CHAPTER XXXV 


T ord Strode sat in his study over the fire. 

^ He had come in from a long day’s hunt- 
ing, and for the first time Ambrose had accom- 
panied him. It had been considered inexpedient 
to send the boy back to Eton that term, the doc- 
tors having advised a complete rest from all brain 
work until his strength was completely restored. 

Ambrose had been the recipient of a good deal 
of attention, and he rode so well that even his 
grandfather had been proud of him. His was 
such a vivid little face, and the exercise had 
brought a tinge of color to the thin, rather sal- 
low cheeks. A small valiant figure he was 
perched upon one of his grandfather’s hunters, 
and many people regarded with curiosity this 
boy-heir to the house of Strode. Not so many 
years ago — for time slips past quickly in the even 
monotony of country days — this boy’s father and 
uncle had been the most discussed young men 
in the county. And it was of his father that peo- 
ple thought to-day — of Gifford, with his April 
moods of careless gaiety and sudden, somber 
gloom. If his first marriage had been sordid, 
his second — at least all that was known of it — 
had been decidedly romantic. Very little was 
known of this other wife who had lived abroad 
and had died abroad, and had never come to 

3S7 


388 


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Merrywood, and whose son had been brought 
thither only when both his parents were dead. 

With this mysterious episode in the back- 
ground — for a fierce illumination beats always 
upon the seats of the locally mighty in every 
county — Ambrose could scarcely escape being an 
object of very special interest when he first rode 
to the meet with Lord Strode. He was not at 
all like his father’s family in appearance, and so 
it was decided that he must resemble his mother, 
especially as he had such a foreign look. They 
were not aware that beyond her name Yolande 
had had nothing of the foreigner about her, and 
that no blood other than English ran in her 
veins. 

Kathleen Chenevix took special notice of Am- 
brose, whom she had had a sentimental curiosity 
to see. She had not expected this grave, self- 
possessed, well-mannered boy, who spoke Eng- 
lish with a strong touch of foreign accent. He 
had none of Gifford’s sunny charm and unsus- 
pected variability. He was unchildlike — she had 
heard that much about him, — and evidently the 
very repressive atmosphere of Merrywood had 
deepened his disposition to reticence. She 
wished to talk to him, and to learn something of 
his mother — that unknown, mysterious woman 
to whom even Gifford Lumleigh had been su- 
premely faithful. 

“You’ve never been out with us before,” she 
said to him, with her fresh, frank smile. 

“No — my grandfather didn’t wish it. But I 
couldn’t go back to Eton this half, and I’ve been 
told to be out a lot in the open air.” 


FINE CLAY 


389 


“Oh, yes — I remember, you were very ill in the 
summer. Are you better now?” 

“Yes— I s m quite well again, thank you.” 

She said: “They do keep you under lock and 
key. It must be awfully dull for you.” 

“Not when Robin is there,” he said. 

“I was a friend of your father’s,” said Cat, 
hesitating a little over the word “friend.” “I 
liked him very much. But you don’t remember 
him, do you?” 

“No — I don’t remember him. I hadn’t seen 
him since I was two.” 

“You remember your mother, of course?” 

“Oh, yes,” he said; “I remember her quite well, 
and the place where we lived in Palermo. The 
palms and the climbing roses.” . . . 

“Do you remember what she was like? Dark 
or fair?” 

“She was dark,” said Ambrose, “and beauti- 
ful.” . . . His eyes shone. 

“But you were very little when you came here.” 

“I was five years old. I can remember quite 
well. I can remember Tibby, too.” 

“Tibby? Who on earth is Tibby?” 

“She was old,” said Ambrose; “I think she 
was my mother’s governess. She used to teach 
me.” 

“Till you came here?” 

“Yes — after my mother died — till I came 
here.” 

“They didn’t let her come too?” 

“Oh, no,” said Ambrose; “I came with my 
grandmother. She fetched me. I was in Rome 
with Tibby.” 


390 


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He could still remember that terrible journey, 
the dark, swift, desolate rushing across strange 
and unknown countries, when he lay awake and 
sobbed in his narrow wagon-lit. He could still 
remember Lady Strode’s vain efforts to comfort 
him. He had only wanted Tibby, and they had 
left Tibby, weeping bitterly, behind. While the 
rest of those childish days had become blurred 
and dim, except for some stray memory of his 
mother, those events still stood out quite sharply. 

“Your mother never came to Merrywood,” said 
Cat, wondering a little how far it was wise to dis- 
cuss the situation with the boy. 

“No, never,” he said; “we lived abroad always. 
There was sunshine — it was never too cold.” He 
shivered a little, for the November air was sharp. 

“But you're happy here?” 

This time he did not answer; he looked straight 
in front of him, as if he were insensible of her 
presence. Memory, so treacherous and elusive, 
was trying to paint the South anew for him — the 
blue shining sea, the green shining palms, the 
groves of orange-trees, the strong and sweet per- 
fumes, the fireflies that lit their lamps at night 
and wandered like jeweled vagrants in the gar- 
den, and, above all, a mountain that could be 
seen across the harbor — long, and high, and 
flat-topped, dimly purple against a fierce blue 
sky. . . . 

“What are you thinking of?” she asked gently. 

There had been at that moment to her think- 
ing a faint resemblance to Gifford, in some of his 
sadder moods, about the boy’s eyes and mouth. 

“I was thinking of all that time.” He spoke 


FINE CLAY 


391 


gravely. “Some day I shall perhaps go back to 
it. I have to learn now, and go to school and 
play games and hunt, and be like other boys. 
But when I am a man I shall go back. It is all 
waiting for me.” . . . He seemed to be speak- 
ing less to her than to himself. 

“What a strange boy you are, Ambrose!” she 
said. “Isn’t England enough for you?” 

He said slowly: “I don’t belong here. I 
wish I did. They are trying to make me and 
then I disappoint them. . . . When I am a man 
I shall be free!” 

“What does Lord Strode think of these 
ideas?” 

“He does not know I have them. I never 
speak of them. But you asked me — you made 
me speak. I think if he knew he would be very 
angry.” 

“And he’s awful when he’s angry?” 

“Yes — I am afraid of him.” 

“He used to be harsh, too, to your father and 
punish him severely when he was a boy.” 

“He punishes me too,” said Ambrose. “He 
doesn’t wish to be unkind. He only wants me 
to think as he thinks. It is not easy to please 
him.” 

“Your father didn’t always try and please 
him,” said Cat. 

“Tell me about my father. What was he 
like?” 

“He was tall and very good-looking, with dark 
gray eyes. He had rather fair curly hair. He 
always looked like a boy — young and careless,” 
said Cat. “Didn’t your mother tell you?” 


392 


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(( I can’t remember my mother or Tibby ever 
speaking of him,” said Ambrose. “I used to 
think he was dead — long before he died. He 
didn’t live with us, you see— I don’t know why. 
No one has ever told me.” 

Cat knew why perfectly well, but she was not 
prepared to enlighten him on the point. Some 
day his grandparents would probably tell him as 
much as they knew themselves, which from all ac- 
counts amounted to very little. 

The boy went on speaking: 

“I should like to see dear old Tibby again. I 
wish, though, I didn’t remember her best of all. 
I should like to remember my mother best!” 

As he rode home that afternoon in the gray 
clear twilight of the November day, Lord Strode 
said to him. 

“You were talking for a long time to Lady 
Kathleen Chenevix at the meet this morning. 
What had she got to say?” 

“She talked — a little about my father,” said 
Ambrose hesitatingly. 

He was tired and cold, and the day had not 
been at all an exciting one. Since the morning 
they had not had a single good gallop. But he 
had liked Lady Kathleen, and her conversation 
had interested him. She was a woman whom 
most boys would like for her cheerful buoyant 
spirits, her easy camaraderie and her ready sym- 
pathy. Her own son was a few years younger 
than Ambrose, and she was very devoted to him. 
Gifford had been the one love of her life, and 
though she was not at all morbid about him, she 


FINE CLAY 


393 


could not help feeling a very deep interest in the 
personality of his boy. Ambrose had wanted to 
talk to her a great deal more; he felt that she 
could have explained a number of things which 
he very much wished to know. She might have 
told him, for instance, why his mother had never 
been to Merry wood, and why his father had not 
lived with them up till the time of his death. 
And he would have liked to talk to her, too, for 
she was bright and sympathetic. Only he had 
been a little afraid. She might not understand, 
and she might repeat it. It was safer locked up 
in his own heart, and he trembled when he 
thought how near he had been to telling her of 
that strange second life, which was so much 
nearer and more intimate than his outward every- 
day life of school and games and hunting, and 
being ill, and have to be punished, and the rest of 
the trivial things which made it material and 
solid. 

“She was always a gossip,” said Lord Strode. 
“What did she tell you about him?” 

“She said he was tall and fair and handsome 
and very boyish-looking,” he said. 

They rode in silence through the muddy lanes. 
Their horses, too, were tired. Presently Lord 
Strode said: 

“Did she talk about your mother, Am- 
brose?” 

“She asked me if I remembered her.” 

“And you said . . .?” 

“That I remembered her and ...” he hesi- 
tated. 

“And . . .?” prompted Lord Strode. 


394 


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“And Tibby,” said Ambrose. 

“Children always believe that they can remem- 
ber their old nurses/' said Lord Strode, with a 
touch of scorn. “She was a terrible old woman, 
Ambrose. You would do well to forget her.” 

The old uneasy feeling came into his heart. 
What did the boy remember of those past days? 
The episode of the rosary — the visit to the Ora- 
tory — the refusal of confirmation — the statement 
of the hospital nurse dismissed so summarily — 
all formed a certain sequence. Perhaps in the 
boy's mind, so reticent, so reserved, these things 
were still indelibly impressed. 

“I forbid you to talk about Miss Tibbit or 
mention her name,” said Lord Strode severely, 
and with gathering anger; “she was not a fit per- 
son to have charge of you!” 

“I am sorry,” said the boy; “I had not meant 
to speak qf her.” 

“She was a very injudicious foolish person. 
She taught you many things that were false and 
evil!” 

Ambrose looked up quickly. 

“But she was very kind,” he said; “she used to 
nurse me when I was ill. And my mother loved 
her.” Across the dim vista of those years his 
mind made an effort to clutch at and hold those 
vague and dormant, but exquisite memories. “I 
am sure that she did not teach me anything that 
was evil.” . . . 

“Don’t contradict me! I tell you she was not 
a fit person for you to know!” Lord Strode's 
voice rang with rising passion. “You must not 
speak to me like that.” He struck Ambrose a 


FINE CLAY 


395 


sharp blow across the face with his riding whip. 

Ambrose put up his hand to his face; for a mo- 
ment he felt bewildered with the pain. 

“I am sorry,” he said, “I will not speak of her 
again.” He was very white, and the mark of 
the blow showed dully red upon his cheek. 

“I think you had better have a tutor these holi- 
days since you can’t go to school. I can’t have 
you idling about like this. You got thoroughly 
spoilt when you were ill, and you think you can 
say and do just as you like.” 

When they reached Merrywood, Ambrose 
went up to his room, feeling once more in deep 
disgrace. He had the same room at the top of 
the house which his father had always occupied. 
So there would be a tutor. He was glad of that 
— he hoped he would be as nice as the last one 
who had been there during the Christmas holi- 
days. Some one young and with whom he could 
go for walks and rides. There was a motor now, 
and sometimes he was allowed to go for expedi- 
tions in it. On the whole, he was glad to think 
he would not be left quite so much to himself. 

Now as Lord Strode sat alone over his study 
fire his thoughts were completely occupied with 
his grandson. He was a little sorry that he had 
lost his temper and struck him, but he had been 
thoroughly irritated by that glimpse into his 
mind. There was something so aloof about the 
boy. Not hostile, not rebellious, but quietly and 
irremediably detached. Neither of his own sons 
had been so difficult to deal with. Gifford had 
been, when he chose, openly mutinous, flagrantly 


396 


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disobedient, sometimes reckless of consequences, 
and sometimes hideously deceitful. But almost 
always one knew why. There had been nothing 
reticent, nothing hidden. All was revealed in a 
rush of passionate words with a defiant rebellion, 
and even when he had deliberately lied as a child, 
that had not been difficult to discover. But with 
this boy there was an unknown and occult factor 
at work, as if an invisible hand were guiding him 
surely but secretly. It was almost as if the spirit 
of his dead mother had never left him. Lord 
Strode was not a religious man, but he was ex- 
tremely and violently superstitious, although he 
would never have admitted it. Yet when he 
looked at Ambrose, he almost always had this 
absurd and superstitious thought. Early influ- 
ences counted for much, yet surely if they were 
abruptly removed with a rupture both sudden 
and complete, it was impossible in his opinion 
that they could be of abiding duration or possess 
any permanency. And he flattered himself that 
in flinging aside Miss Tibbit he had finally and 
definitely cut the last cord that bound Ambrose 
to his old undesirable environment. He had 
watched the boy closely for more than nine years, 
and he had seen him grow up in a curious detach- 
ment from all his surroundings. Externals of 
wealth did not touch him. He did not spend his 
pocket-money ; he seemed to have no desire at all 
for material things. He simply accepted the 
life that had been imposed upon him — the nor- 
mal healthy life of an English schoolboy, who is 
also the heir of a great house, with considerable 
wealth awaiting him. His work was always nor- 


FINE CLAY 


897 


mal ; his place at school the average one for a boy 
of his age. F or some years his conduct had been 
described as excellent. But nearly every master 
added that he was a difficult boy temperamen- 
tally — hard to know — and abnormally reserved. 
Always there was a lack of enthusiasm. He 
worked and played conscientiously. These 
rather negative admissions had often irritated 
Lord Strode, because they plainly showed him 
that the boy never revealed himself to any one — 
he was exactly the same at school as he was at 
home. He was never in touch with realities. 
There was something aggravatingly mysterious 
about him. . . . 

“I wonder what else he said to Cat?” he 
thought. It was disquieting — this recrudescence 
of Tibby and of Palermo days. 

“It is all waiting for me. . . . When I am a 
man I shall go hack ! 33 . . . 

Had he heard those words they might have 
given him — wilfully obtuse as he was — a clue and 
key to those interior influences which were shap- 
ing the boy’s soul for its ultimate end. 

At dinner that night Lady Strode said inno- 
cently: 

“Did you hurt your face out hunting to-day?” 

Ambrose’s cheek was bruised and slightly 
grazed. He flushed but did not answer. Lord 
Strode struck in sharply: 

“Ambrose was very rude and contradicted me. 
And for once he got what he thoroughly de- 
served!” 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


i 6 \ re you alone, Ambrose?” 

-Cl* Cat swung up the drive, followed by a 
tribe of muddy Pekingese dogs. Her short 
skirts revealed stout boots ; her small hands were 
enclosed in large leather gloves. She brandished 
a whip with a long lash, chiefly for purposes of 
menace. 

“Yes. Every one is out. Grannie is driving, 
and my grandfather is in town this week.” . 

“Then let me come and have schoolroom tea 
with you.” 

Her bright friendly face made the boy — shy 
as he was — feel suddenly at his ease. 

“Oh, do come,” he said; “it ought to be ready 
in about ten minutes. And bring the dogs. 
What jolly little things. We’ll go up the back 
staircase if you don’t mind.” 

“Lord Strode doesn’t like dogs in the house?” 

“No.” He laughed. “Especially muddy ones. 
I often wish I had a dog.” He picked one up 
and cuddled it; it was soft and warm and licked 
his face. Then he led the way indoors. 

Tea was always a solitary meal for him unless 
he had a tutor. Lord Strode, who had had to 
be in town on business, was also going to inter- 
view tutors. Ambrose could never remember 
having a grown-up guest before, and he felt a 
little timid about entertaining her. But Cat 
made herself quite at home, and ate large slices 


FINE CLAY 


399 


of bread and jam and cake, and helped the 
P ekingese to milk in her own saucer. When she 
had finished she lit a cigarette and sat over the 
fire smoking, while the dogs lay curled up at her 
feet and slept. 

“I’m to have a new tutor next week,” said 
Ambrose. 

“Oh, shall you like that?” 

“It depends,” said Ambrose; “but if he’s like 
the last I shall be glad. I’m rather lonely, pot- 
tering about all day by myself. I’m not allowed 
to hunt more than once a week, and I’m not sup- 
posed to do regular lessons since I was ill.” 

“What do you do?” she asked curiously. 

“I read a lot. I’m very fond of reading.” 

“What do you read?” 

He reddened a little. “Oh, all kinds of books ! 
I’m allowed to take anything out of the library 
now except novels. I mayn’t take them without 
asking, but I don’t care about them. I like read- 
ing poetry — most of the other boys think it’s rot 
— but I don’t. I found an old book the other 
day by a poet called Crashaw. Do you know 
his poems?” 

“No — I’m not literary, you know. I don’t 
think I’ve ever heard of him.” 

“And there’s another one I like most awfully. 
His name is Francis Thompson. I don’t under- 
stand all of his, but some are beautiful.” 

“I’ve heard of him. Read me something,” she 
said. 

“Oh, may I really?” He fetched the book and 
began to read aloud those strange mysterious 
honeyed numbers : 


400 


FINE CLAY 


Where is the land of Luthany, 

Where is the tract of Elenore ? 

I am bound therefor. 

Pierce thy heart to find the key, 

With thee take 

Only what none else would keep; 

Learn to dream when thou dost wake. 

Learn to wake when thou dost sleep. 

Learn to water joy with tears, 

Learn from fears to vanquish fears; 

To hope, for thou dar’st not despair. 

Exult, for that thou dar’st not grieve. 

Plow thou the rock until it bear ; 

Know, for thou else couldst not believe ; 

Lose, that the lost thou may’st receive ; 

Die, for none other way canst live. 

When earth and Heaven lay down their veil. 
And that apocalypse turns thee pale; 

When thy seeing blindeth thee 
To what thy fellow-mortals see; 

When their sight to thee is sightless ; 

Their living, death ; their light, most lightless ; 
Search no more — 

Pass the gates of Luthany, tread the region Elenore. 

“Do you like that?” he asked eagerly. The 
boy’s face was almost transfigured; his eyes were 
bright and rapt. 

“Yes. It’s a little difficult, isn’t it?” she said. 
“You know he had a very sad life, and used to 
sell matches in the Strand. He was a Catholic.” 

“A Catholic?” Ambrose laid down the book 
and gazed at her. 

“Yes. I wonder they let you read his poems.” 
“Why?” he asked. 

His heart beat; he felt that perhaps now he 
was going to learn something quite definite and 


FINE CLAY 


401 


illuminating from Lady Kathleen. Some solu- 
tion of the barriers that hedged him round so 
securely, prisoning him between the narrow walls 
of Merrywood — he who had once known the wild 
spaces of the sun! . . . 

“I’m not sure if I ought to say,” she answered. 

“You can tell me,” he said slowly; “I have 
learned not to speak of some things here. I do 
not know why, but it makes my grandfather 
angry. He used to. punish me. And there has 
never been any one to ask. I should like to 
know. I think it would make things easier.” 

His face was so eager and excited that he 
looked almost handsome. And this was Gif- 
ford’s son, whose flaming dark eyes were fixed 
upon her. 

“Well, you know,” said Cat, rather reluctantly, 
“I have been told that your mother was a Catho- 
lic, and that is why she never came to Merry- 
wood. She brought you up as one, and she 
wouldn’t let your father have charge of you. 
When she died they found you and took you 
away. You mustn’t be a Catholic, you see. 
You are the heir, and no Catholic can inherit the 
Strode property — the first Lord Strode put that 
in his will. He had a son who was a Jesuit 
priest, and it put him violently against the 
Church.” 

Ambrose was silent; his fingers played idly 
with the silken fringes of a Pekingese’s ears. 

“I suppose I’m very indiscreet to tell you all 
this — but you will have to know it some day.” 

“Do you think,” he said slowly, “that I was 
baptized a Catholic?” 


402 


FINE CLAY 


“Oh, I’m sure you must have been. Your 
mother’s being one was the principal reason why 
your father never acknowledged her, and no one 
knew about her till after he was dead. He was 
afraid to bring a Catholic wife to Merry wood.” 

Ambrose gave a sigh almost of relief. She 
had lifted the nebulous clouds that had for so 
many years bewildered and perplexed him. He 
had been stumbling in darkness, and now he had 
suddenly emerged from those enveloping shad- 
ows into full bright daylight. Everything was 
quite simple, with a hard and crystal clearness. 

“You were so little — I don’t suppose you re- 
member anything that you learnt before you 
came here. You were scarcely more than a baby 
when your mother died.” 

Ambrose was silent. 

“It’s lucky for you, my dear boy, that they 
have had the bringing up of you here.” 

She spoke lightly, but still he did not answer. 

“It’s such nonsense — all that fuss about reli- 
gion. Don’t you think so yourself ? You might 
have had to remain miserably poor, instead of 
being the heir to this beautiful place with heaps 
of money ! What a lucky boy you are, Ambrose ! 
And you were in such danger of losing it all! 
Why do you look so solemn?” 

His mind seemed to be repeating the words: 
“Lose, that the lost thou may’st receive . . . . 
Die , for none other way canst live . . . . When 
thy seeing blindeth thee To what thy fellow mor- 
tals see — Search no more . Pass the gates of 
Luthany — tread the region Elenore ." . . . 


FINE CLAY 403 

“I never understood before” ... he said 
dreamily. 

“I wonder they didn’t tell you. You’re not a 
baby now.” 

“But I’m so glad you’ve told me, Lady Kath- 
leen!” His face broke into one of those sudden, 
enchanting smiles that seemed to illuminate his 
whole countenance. 

“Well, you’ll know now never to let yourself 
be entrapped by the errors of Rome!” she said 
lightly. 

Still, she felt a little misgiving lest she had said 
too much, spoken too frankly, and had thus put 
the boy in possession of certain facts which it had 
not been considered desirable for him to know. 

“It was my mother’s faith,” he said slowly, 
“and Tibby’s.” He began to understand his 
grandfather’s harsh condemnation of Tibby. 
Had he not said that she had taught him things 
that were false and evil? 

“But for you it would be an expensive luxury. 
Your father wasn’t a Catholic, Ambrose.” 

“Yes — I see” ... he said. 

She rose now, and the little yellow dogs 
jumped up too, and began to bark and yelp and 
gambol. They were getting bored by her 
lengthy visit. 

Ambrose followed her downstairs. 

“I’ll go out the garden way,” she said; “it’s 
too late for me to ask to see Lady Strode. And 
I must be getting back!” 

“Thank you very much for coming,” said the 
boy. 


404 


FINE CLAY 


She was not one to whom he could confide the 
secret of that strange second life that so absorbed 
and controlled him. But she had set a lamp in 
his path, given him a key to the riddle that had 
seemed so cruel. 

Moved by a sudden impulse she bent down and 
kissed his forehead. 

“You’re a dear boy,” she said, “and you must 
come and have tea with Guy one of these days. 
Then we can have another long talk.” 

“I should like to come very much,” he said. 
He wanted to thank her for kissing him. He 
watched her as she went down the drive, followed 
by the scrimmaging, yelping dogs. Then he 
went into the library and found that his grand- 
mother had returned. 

“Whose dogs were those?” she asked. 

“They were Lady Kathleen’s, Grannie,” he 
said. “I met her in the drive, and she said she 
would like to have schoolroom tea as you were 
out. She has just gone — and she thought it 
would be too late to see you.” 

“How very odd of her,” said Lady Strode. 
“But Cat was always a queer creature.” 

Ambrose was alone in the schoolroom two days 
later when his grandfather returned. Although 
it was not quite the end of November, the weather 
had turned very cold, and a light fall of snow 
had powdered the lawn and the gravelled drive. 
There had been a wonderful, though stormy, sun- 
set behind the knoll of stripped beech-trees on the 
top of the down where it was said that a Saxon 
chief lay entombed. Gold and crimson with 


FINE CLAY 


405 


strange lurid gashes of purple filled the western 
sky, and one or two stars already displayed their 
pale and trembling lamps. 

The boy had watched it with a strange sense 
of disquietude. It was beautiful and terrible too 
— this almost fiercely-painted pageant of the 
heavens. He had knelt down and prayed, hiding 
his face in his hands. Yes — he was wasting these 
slow, interminable, unprofitable years. There 
should have been for him other things, filling the 
days with riches unspeakable ; the desire of them 
filled his soul with a hunger that was like a fierce, 
gnawing pain. 

Lady Kathleen had lifted the veil. She had 
not perhaps realized what she was doing when 
she explained his position fully to him. That 
was already two days ago. Although Ambrose 
was going on for fifteen, no hint of the truth had 
until now reached him. He was in some ways 
almost painfully precocious ; in others, very much 
of a child. Obedience enjoined upon him a com- 
plete compliance with his grandfather’s com- 
mands, imposing silence almost as a duty. On 
the other hand, he had now, for the first time in 
his life, an intense desire to speak quite openly 
to Lord Strode, and to tell him that he knew and 
understood his own position, and entreat of him 
the one thing — that he might be a Catholic, in 
deed as well as in name, and practise his religion. 
It was what he needed more and more — so much, 
indeed, that he had almost ceased to need any- 
thing else. He longed to throw himself at Lord 
Strode’s feet and tell him this without reserva- 
tion. And then the thought of that stern and 


406 


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frozen face came back to his mind, chilling his 
ardor. He was afraid ... he was a coward. 
There had been child-martyrs in the past, boys 
and even little girls, younger, frailer, than him- 
self, who had faced death courageously in horri- 
ble forms for the faith. He remembered Tibby 
telling him the story of the little Saint Crescentia, 
a girl of thirteen, whose body had been found 
in the Catacombs with the marks of the teeth of 
wild beasts indenting the skull. And he — with 
no fear of death — did not dare openly to confess 
his faith to his grandfather, nor go to him and say : 
“I am a Catholic s and all these years that I have 
been with you I have never forgotten that I am 
one , and I ash you to let me practise my religion ” 

The worst consequences would be a thrashing, 
and he was not afraid of that; he had endured it 
too often, and his grandfather’s anger had lost 
some of its terrors for him. But he was afraid 
of Lord Strode, afraid of him in a way he could 
not explain. There was an ultimate frozen hard- 
ness about him that was terrifying. And there 
was no hope of his granting the request even if it 
were made. He would still further restrict his 
liberty. As Ambrose was meditating upon all 
the bewildering possibilities of the situation, he 
heard the motor purring along the drive. As 
he watched he saw his grandfather’s tall, lean, 
upright form alight. He was alone and unac- 
companied. 

When he went downstairs Lord Strode said to 
him: 

“I’ve found a tutor for you, but he can’t come 
for about three weeks. He will be here in the 


FINE CLAY 


407 


Christmas holidays, and Robin is coming too, so 
you will be able to share him. Robin is working 
for the Army, and he can’t afford to be idle these 
holidays, and so he isn’t going abroad with his 
mother.” 


CHAPTER XXXVII 


R obin had not wished to go to Merry wood for 
Christmas, and felt decidedly bored at the 
prospect. He wished to go to Switzerland for 
the winter sports, and the thought of staying at 
Merrywood and working with a tutor was a 
dreary one. Moreover, he felt so much older 
than Ambrose now that he regarded him as quite 
a small boy. Pie liked boys of his own age or 
older than himself. At this stage he was a little 
inclined to despise his cousin. 

“Slacker!” he said, when they went up to the 
schoolroom soon after his arrival. “Why didn’t 
you turn up this half?” 

“Because I had typhoid fever in the summer,” 
said Ambrose, “and I wasn’t allowed to do any 
work. But we are going to have a tutor.” 

“Yes — so Uncle John told me. Beastly rot 
doing work in the holidays.” 

He threw himself into an arm-chair and 
stretched out his legs. He was a very handsome 
boy, like the Lumleighs, with crisp, fair hair and 
bright blue eyes. He looked strong and big and 
healthy. Ambrose envied him his splendid 
height and good looks. He felt more than ever 
puny beside him. 

“Oh, I hope you won’t find it very dull here, 
Robin,” he said anxiouslv. “I am going to 

408 


FINE CLAY 


409 


work, too, when Mr. Barclay comes. I’m not as 
high up as my father and uncle were at my age, 
and that is a disappointment to Grandfather.” 

“Well, of course he wants you to be clever and 
all that,” said Robin, looking at him a little dis- 
dainfully. 

“I wish you were the heir, Robin,” said Am- 
brose regretfully. “I’m not a bit what Grand- 
father wants me to be!” He looked at him wist- 
fully. 

“Well, I was supposed to be the heir at one 
time,” said Robin; “and once for a few months 
or weeks, I forget which, the mater thought I 
was going to inherit after Uncle John. Then 
you turned up abroad somewhere. I was too 
small to care, but she was awfully cut up about 
it. You must admit it was a facer for her, 
and for a long time she insisted upon believing 
that you were dead, and that they would never 
find you. Then Mr. Hurrell found you abroad. 
She said it was just what she should always have 
expected of Uncle Gifford — to leave a wife and 
baby, whom no one knew anything about, hidden 
away somewhere!” 

“I wish they hadn’t found me. I wish you had 
been the heir, Robin,” he said thoughtfully. “I 
think they would have liked you much better.” 

“Oh, I’ve always got on very well with Uncle 
John,” said Robin loftily; “he only wants under- 
standing. I daresay he’s a bit of a Tartar.” 

Robin, sharp, observant, with a certain worldly 
shrewdness, noticed many things during those 
weeks spent at Merrywood that winter. He saw 


410 


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that Ambrose still remained quite “out of the pic- 
ture,” and that this fact was even more obvious 
than it had been when he first came as a little boy. 
Although he had lived there now for more than 
nine years, he did not seem to belong to Merry- 
wood at all. He was more like an alien than a 
grandson of the house. The thin, dark, delicate- 
looking boy, the only youthful creature in this 
somber old house, was in it, but not of it. With 
his grandfather he was always ill at ease, shy, 
nervous, and timid. With Lady Strode he was 
less embarrassed and reserved; but even to her 
he was painfully courteous in a stiff, deferential, 
old-fashioned way. With Robin himself he was 
gentle and submissive, eager to wait upon him, 
to “fag” for him, treating him more like a guest 
than a comrade and an equal. There was some- 
thing strange about his position at Merry wood. 
No one noticed him much except to rebuke him. 
His nervousness made him almost clumsy, espe- 
cially at table. Lord Strode was often both 
angry and sarcastic with him. The humility of 
Ambrose struck Robin as a thing quite unusual 
and very painful to witness. He seemed to ac- 
cept in a detached way, that yet was not quite 
indiff erent, all the scolding and reprimanding he 
so constantly received. Robin had never had 
any kind of petty domestic tyranny to endure, 
and he was amazed at this exhibition of quiet and 
patient endurance. Then if Ambrose stam- 
mered and his broken English became more ap- 
parent than usual, Lord Strode was always 
violently irritated with him, and that made mat- 
ters worse. 


FINE CLAY 


411 


“Are you never going to learn to speak Eng- 
lish, Ambrose?” he would say, with a sarcasm 
that made the boy flinch a little. 

It was only one of many little things, but even 
Robin found that the perpetual fault-finding got 
on his own nerves. 

“Why don’t you try and get on better with 
Uncle John?” he asked one day, when they 
started out for a walk after an unusually heated 
scene at luncheon. 

“I can’t help it, Robin,” said Ambrose. 

“You always manage to irritate him. He’s 
never like that to me!” 

“But he likes you, Robin,” said Ambrose 
rather wistfully. 

“But surely he likes you too? You are his 
grandson and I’m only a cousin, and not a very 
near one.” 

It was a rash speech and Ambrose waited a 
moment before replying. 

“I don’t think he likes me very much. I am a 
disappointment to him. You must see for your- 
self that I am stupid — different from other boys, 
and that annoys him. You mustn’t blame 
him.” 

“No — I blame you,” said Robin bluntly. 

“I know it is my fault. But I do try and 
please him.” 

“Yes — you try too hard. We’re all painfully 
aware of that. Why can’t you be more like 
other boys? Why don’t you speak frankly in- 
stead of in that shy, stupid way? You’re afraid 
of him, and you show it.” 

“I am afraid when he speaks as he did to-day* 


412 


FINE CLAY 


He is so clever, and he can say such bitter things 
— things that hurt.” . . . 

“You must be very miserable,” said Robin; 
“before I came here this time I was only think- 
ing what a jolly lucky chap you were — more to 
be envied almost than any one I know. You’ll 
have lots of money, and the mater and I are 
often jolly hard up, and have to travel second 
class, and put up at cheap hotels. But now I’ve 
seen you here I don’t envy you at all. I’m 
awfully sorry for you, only I can’t help seeing 
it’s a lot your own fault!” 

Ambrose was silent. Suddenly he slipped his 
hand in Robin’s. 

“Oh, Robin,” he said, “do let us be friends.” 

“All right,” said Robin; “don’t be soppy about 
it!” 

“I’m not soppy . . . but I mean ... do try 
and not dislike me too much. I can’t help being 
as I am. I only wish you were in my place — 
you would be ever so much more suited to it than 
I am. Grandfather would be proud of you. I 
know he is almost ashamed of me. . . . I’m so 
little and stupid, and I speak English so 
badly.” . . . 

“Perhaps it’s partly because he didn’t like 
your father’s marriage,” said Robin. “I know 
he didn’t approve of it — the mater told me.” 

“But he didn’t know about it till my father 
died.” 

“But he knew once that Uncle Gifford wanted 
to marry your mother — the mater was here at 
the time, and there was an awful row about it.” 


FINE CLAY 413 

“Oh, was there ?” said Ambrose, deeply inter- 
ested. 

“Yet they must have been properly married, 
or you wouldn’t be the heir,” said Robin mus- 
ingly. “I wonder what there was against her?” 

“There was nothing against her!” Ambrose’s 
dark eyes flashed. “She was a saint . . . and 
she was beautiful. I can remember her — she 
loved me — she was always kind.” . . . For the 
first time in all Robin’s experience of him he 
spoke warmly, as if aroused from his long 
apathy. But he broke off suddenly. Yes — 
there had been something against her. He re- 
membered Lady Kathleen’s words. She was a 
Catholic, and that was why his father had never 
dared bring her to Merry wood, that was why he 
had never dared speak of his marriage, and had 
never told them that beyond the sea there was a 
wife whom he loved . . . and a little son who 
was heir to the Strode property. 

“There must have been something, though,” 
said Robin rather persistently. “Perhaps it’s 
something they haven’t told you!” 

“They never mention her,” said Ambrose; 
“but then they do not often speak of my father.” 

“The mater says that I was looked upon as 
the heir presumptive when your father died,” 
said Robin; “and it was in the peerages for one 
year — she showed it to me once. They couldn’t 
hear any news of you, you see. And then one 
day Uncle John wrote and told her that you had 
been found somewhere abroad. It was a great 
blow to her, of course. But Uncle John has 


414 


FINE CLAY 


been very good in paying all my expenses at 
school, and he is going to give me an allowance 
when I’m in the Army.” 

“Oh, Robin — you’ll think me ungrateful, but 
I do wish they had never found me. I wish you 
were in my place. You’re so splendid — and 
you’d fit in so well. I can’t help thinking you’re 
just the kind of boy they would like me to be — 
just the one my grandfather would like to have 
for his heir. He is so fond of you already, and 
you get on so well with him. You never do awk- 
ward, clumsy things ... or speak with a for- 
eign accent.” 

“Oh, rot!” said Robin, reddening under the 
praise. “We can’t alter it now, Ambrose. 
And you must jolly well learn to fit in!” He 
straightened himself ; he was accustomed to giv- 
ing his juniors scraps of advice and warning, and 
it must be said that he was as little priggish as 
it was possible to be under the circumstances. 
“It’s a lesson, you know — just the same as any 
other, and it’s your duty to learn it. . . . It’s 
up to you to learn how to please him, and not 
look every moment as if he were going to bite 
you! The mater thinks an awful lot of Uncle 
John, and he’s been jolly decent to her. I sup- 
pose you can’t help the way you speak, but, of 
course, it sounds rotten in an English boy. 
Your mother wasn’t a foreigner, was she?” 

“No — she was English, but she had lived 
abroad all her life — in France when she was a 
little girl, and in Italy after she married. She 
died in Palermo, and it was in Rome that Mr. 
Hurrell found us. I didn’t know who he was 


FINE CLAY 


415 


then, but he told Tibby he was going to take me 
away. I was very fond of Tibby — I can still 
remember crying at having to leave her.” 

“But still all that happened ages ago,” said 
Robin carelessly; “I wonder you can remember 
it all so distinctly. I can hardly remember any- 
thing that happened when I was five, except 
falling down and breaking my arm on the ice — 
and even that seems very vague.” 

But Ambrose could remember well his first 
days at Merrywood, the loneliness, the pain of 
them. Those old incidents were too sharply 
etched upon his memory ever to be quite forgot- 
ten. He had come from a little world of love 
and tenderness and patient understanding — such 
a world as Robin had perhaps known all his life 
— to one of harsh discipline when the things that 
had once been right had suddenly become wrong 
— so wrong that he was punished for doing them. 
It had been an upheaval, and he — old for his 
years, as children brought up abroad often are — 
could not forget his inability to adjust the past 
with the present, finding them to be in such fierce 
antagonism. And quite recently Lady Kath- 
leen had taught him the meaning of it all, and 
had shown him why he had been thus punished, 
why they had striven to eliminate from his mind 
all that his mother and Tibby had taught him 
of their faith. But he could not speak to Robin 
of this. He had a strong feeling that his cousin 
would fully share Lady Kathleen’s views upon 
the ultimate wisdom of his grandfather’s action. 
Those who could have understood and sympa- 
thized had never been suffered to remain in his 


416 


FINE CLAY 


life. There had been Mr. Standish, and there 
had been the nurse who had lent him, for a little 
while, her rosary when he was ill. . . . Between 
him and all his own little world there was a rigid 
though invisible barrier, and he could not break 
it down. He crouched in the shadows, not dar- 
ing to emerge. Those two living human beings 
who could have helped him had been swept re- 
morselessly from his sight before he had fully 
realized their proximity. Only his prayers — his 
secret and passionate prayers — joined him to his 
mother’s world. Through the years these, at 
least, had never failed. He had prayed that he 
might never forget them . . . and he had not 
forgotten. He knew that they formed but a 
meager part of the enormous wealth of his spirit- 
ual heritage of which he had been robbed. He 
had no power, no knowledge, to add to them. 
But they held him securely to the past, like fine 
cords finely spun. . . . 

The new tutor, Claude Barclay, was a rather 
delicate young man who had only recently left 
Oxford, where he had won many honors before 
he broke down from over-work. . . . He was a 
scholar of a college renowned for its learning and 
for the exalted names of those who had left it, 
to find more fame in the world that lay beyond 
those ancient gray walls. From the first he 
rather openly showed his preference for Robin 
Lumleigh. He was easier to understand; he 
was a charming boy, with frank, engaging man- 
ners ; his ready intelligence and quick perception 
delighted Claude Barclay. Ambrose, silent, 


FINE CLAY 


417 


studious and slow, though always anxious to do 
his best, was of quite another type. He found 
himself, as usual, a little left out in the cold. 
Robin quickly made friends, and being accus- 
tomed to the society of people much older than 
himself, soon preferred being with Mr. Barclay 
to being with his cousin. Ambrose, in conse- 
quence, rather effaced himself. He was neither 
jealous nor huffy that his cousin should so 
promptly desert him for Mr. Barclay. He 
simply accepted the situation, just as he had al- 
ways accepted the fact of Robin’s greater popu- 
larity and brilliance. He was far behind him 
in knowledge — even more so than the difference 
in their ages justified. But since his illness he 
found he had forgotten a good deal, and this 
made his ignorance the more marked. He was 
also far behind Robin in knowledge of the world. 
He had never traveled nor been about at all since 
he first came to Merrywood. Robin seemed to 
have been everywhere; he had yachted with his 
mother, he had been to Switzerland for winter 
sports, and he had explored the galleries of 
Paris, Dresden and Munich. It made Ambrose 
feel a very dull boy indeed when he heard Robin 
and Mr. Barclay discussing their experiences. 
He kept like a little unobtrusive shadow in the 
background. He half envied Robin this capac- 
ity for making friends as well as his charm of 
manner, his good looks, his ready conversation. 
No barrier shut him in; no cords bound him; no 
walls enclosed and imprisoned him. He had no 
secret life. He was very frank, ready to talk 
about himself, eager to listen when others spoke. 


418 


FINE CLAY 


There was a tremendous energy about him which 
all seemed part of his splendid physique. He 
had no time for dreams and he had nothing to 
hide. It was for this last reason that Ambrose 
envied him most. Surely somewhere he, too, 
might have lived with nothing to hide, where he, 
too, could have spoken openly and frankly of the 
things that were so precious to him. The sense 
of imprisonment pressed heavily in those days; 
he longed to shake himself free of those barriers 
and go forth. . . . 

Robin’s voice broke sharply across his dreams. 

“Look sharp, Ambrose — why don’t you get on 
with your French exercise? I’ve done mine ages 
ago.” 

Ambrose took up his pen, and reddened as his 
eyes fell upon the still untouched sheet of paper. 

“I was thinking” ... he said. 

“You day-dream like a girl!” said Robin, with 
a touch of scorn. “However, it’s your loss. 
You’ll be left behind again when we go for our 
walk!” 

This had happened very frequently of late. 
Ambrose had performed his tasks so slowly that 
he had had to stay at home to finish them. And 
to-day he longed to be out in the downs. It 
would be beautiful there — with the silver glim- 
mer of the sea shining like a dropped winter 
sunbeam beyond the gray-green hills and the 
purple leafless woods. He longed to feel the 
wind sweeping like cool and delicate fingers 
against his brow. 

“Not finished yet, Ambrose?” said Claude 
Barclay, coming into the room. 


FINE CLAY 419 

“I am sorry to be so slow,” he said in his pretty 
broken English. 

“Don’t roll your r’s like that,” said Mr. Bar- 
clay sharply. He had received particular in- 
structions from Lord Strode to check this 
predisposition in his grandson. 

“Say it over twelve times without rolling your 
r’s. ‘I am sorry to be so slow.’ ” 

“Sorry” was always a dreadful stumbling- 
block. Ambrose tried and failed. 

“Begin again. Twelve times more.” 

The tutor showed signs of impatience. So did 
Robin, but in a lesser degree. Ambrose obeyed 
with a nervousness that was painful to witness. 
. . . He felt that Robin was watching him with 
mingled pity and contempt, as if he were a very 
little boy indeed. It hurt him, and he felt sore 
and bruised. T am sorry to be so slow” . . . 
How absurd and meaningless the sentence 
sounded when he had repeated it half a dozen 
times, his cheeks crimson, his eyes downcast. 

He was glad when the ordeal was over and 
he was left alone. Tears of humiliation stung 
his eyes. He could hear Robin and Mr. Barclay 
talking quite gaily as they passed beneath the 
window, along the path that led to the fields and 
so up to the downs. 

“The painful part is that he knows he’s a duf- 
fer!” he heard Robin say in his careless voice. 
He felt miserably stupid, wretchedly inadequate. 
All his training had tended to make him self- 
conscious, and Robin made him vividly aware of 
his own short-comings. Still, he wished he had 
not spoken of him to Mr. Barclay like that. 


420 


FINE CLAY 


Robin must thoroughly despise him. He had 
stood there like a child, repeating that absurd 
sentence while Robin looked on with scornful 
amusement. It had been a moment of deep 
abasement. But every day there occurred some 
little episode of the kind, depriving him of all 
courage to face the ordeal of lunching with his 
grandparents. 

“Why didn’t you go for a walk to-day, Am- 
brose?” Lord Strode inquired. 

“I hadn’t finished my work.” . . . 

“And why was that?” He turned to Mr. 
Barclay for illumination. 

“Ambrose is lacking in concentration,” said 
Claude Barclay. 

“He’s lacking in a good many things,” said 
Lord Strode. “If he won’t work he must be 
made to.” 

Then there was silence, during which Ambrose 
felt like a guilty, almost criminal culprit. After- 
wards, when they were alone, Robin said to him : 

“It’s getting worse and worse. You’d better 
pull yourself together, Ambrose! You’re get- 
ting morbid. Be happy, and show Uncle John 
that you are happy here. Or else tell him 
plainly and frankly the reason why!” 

Ambrose whitened. 

“The reason why?” he faltered. 

“Well, you couldn’t be such a silly idiot as 
not to have a reason for being so miserable. 
Any one with half an eye can see that you are 
hating it all. Tell him why, and have done with 
it! And if there is a row — a good row often 
clears the air!” 


FINE CLAY 


421 


But he did not force his cousin’s confidence by 
this admonition. Ambrose admired and loved 
Robin almost more than any one else in the 
world, but he never confided in him. He was so 
permanently, so unalterably on the Other Side! 


CHAPTER XXXVIII 


O n the whole, Eton was a time of happiness 
for Ambrose. He was in the same house 
with Robin, and Robin, though much older, was 
always kind. Their friendship deepened, and on 
Ambrose’s side it was not unmixed with hero- 
worship. He made immense efforts to please 
Robin, and incidentally to please his grand- 
father. Those years were not lost in the ulti- 
mate formation of his character. The interior 
life was less violently in the ascendant but it 
never lost its grip upon him. He was old 
enough to realize that he was passing through a 
time of probation, that the fact of daily and 
hourly endeavoring to acquit himself well 
would be of inestimable value in the future. He 
saw his grandfather’s attitude towards him in a 
new light. It had never been tyranny for the 
sake of tyranny; it had been simply a question 
of making him fitted for his future position. 
He knew now that he had increased the difficulty 
of Lord Strode’s task by his own mute, tacit, 
unremitting opposition to him. That opposi- 
tion had aroused a more determined obstinacy 
on the part of Lord Strode. Definite evidence 
that the boy was yielding was still lacking. He 
had never shown any sign of submission on the 


FINE CLAY 


423 


one point. He had gone on hugging his secret 
with grim pertinacity, until he had found himself 
committed to a double life — one of tacit outward 
submission, one of interior spiritual rebellion. 
The rift, never openly disclosed, had bred an im- 
patience and an irritability in the older man, who 
naturally wished for his grandson’s welfare on 
the lines he himself desired and planned. He 
had often been harsh and severe; he had been 
aware that the child was not happy; there was 
no confidence and but little love between them. 
The state of affairs had threatened to become 
almost insupportable during that winter of Mr. 
Barclay’s stay at Merrywood. It was then that 
Robin’s intervention had been productive of 
good results. Quietly he had set himself to 
remedy the matter. He was fond of both Lord 
Strode and Ambrose, and desired to act as peace- 
maker between them. Boy as he was, his influ- 
ence worked wonders, and the friction grew less 
and less. 

When Ambrose had been three years at Eton 
Robin lost his mother. She had been in indif- 
ferent health for some time, and her death fol- 
lowed upon a long period of complete invalidism. 
Robin went away and did not afterwards return 
to Eton. He was broken-hearted and crushed 
by his loss, and Ambrose read his letter an- 
nouncing it with a compassion that was like 
physical pain. It was so unlike Robin — this 
hurried, blotted letter, stained with tears. 

Robin was eighteen, and by his mother’s will 
Lord Strode was appointed sole guardian until 


424 


FINE CLAY 


he came of age. After the funeral he went to 
Merrywood and spent some weeks there, while 
Ambrose remained at Eton. 

At first he missed Robin very much, but in 
reality the elder boy’s absence was beneficial to 
him and made him more independent. Physi- 
cally, he was now somewhat stronger, and 
though still small for his age, his slim grace 
somewhat compensated for the lack of inches. 
He had, however, a slight stoop which gave him 
a studious air. Very dark as to eyes and hair, 
his complexion was pale and olive-hued, and his 
face rather thin and long. He was not hand- 
some, but his eyes, so like Yolande’s in their 
dusky radiance, were beautiful, and his sudden 
rare smiles lit up a face that was ordinarily too 
somber and inexpressive. The habit of reticence 
had early impressed his features with a reserved 
inscrutable look. Many people found his taci- 
turnity repellent; a few who pushed a little be- 
yond externals discovered the peculiar maturity 
of his mind and the depth of mystical wisdom 
that guided him. Now he worked well and as- 
siduously, and was considered advanced for his 
age. AJ1 his reports were admirable. Lord 
Strode congratulated himself upon the success 
of his own system of breaking in a difficult boy. 
He considered that now there would be no fur- 
ther trouble with him. He began to show some- 
thing of the early stability of character displayed 
by Reginald, coupled with a more docile and 
unselfish disposition. Of course, he had not the 
natural charm and winning grace of Robin Lum- 
leigh, who day by day became dearer to his 


FINE CLAY 


425 


guardian. Still Ambrose undoubtedly pos- 
sessed very sterling qualities. The friendship 
between the two boys pleased Lord Strode. It 
was right that they should be friends, and only 
natural that their holidays should be spent to- 
gether at Merrywood. 

But when they first met after Robin’s bereave- 
ment, Aunbrose felt a strange sense of constraint 
and embarrassment. His cousin still bore traces 
of his great grief; he looked older and seemed 
suddenly to have become a man. He was to go 
to Oxford in the autumn, having rather given up 
the idea of entering the army. 

Aonbrose noticed with surprise the friendship 
that had sprung up between Robin and Lord 
Strode. They constantly rode and walked to- 
gether, and Lord Strode often sent for him to 
come to his study and discuss the affairs of the 
estate with him. He had done this in the first 
instance from a kindly wish to wean the boy’s 
mind from his great sorrow, but Robin’s quick 
intelligence, his readiness to grasp things, his 
sympathy with any difficulty, soon made his 
guardian consult him for his own sake. Per- 
haps neither of his two sons had ever shown 
themselves quite so ready to help him in every 
way as Robin did. Little by little he became 
something of a secretary to Lord Strode, whose 
eyesight was somewhat failing, so that he was 
glad to have some of his correspondence taken 
off his hands. Ajid Robin attached himself to 
Lord Strode, for he had a passionate need of 
affection and his mother’s death had left him 
starving. His influence was a softening one. 


426 


FINE CLAY 


It made Lord Strode much more gentle to Am- 
brose. He was seldom now angry or irritable 
with him; he ceased to lash him with fierce sar- 
casm or hold him up to ridicule. Ambrose, 
acutely sensitive to this milder mood, expanded 
a little, came out of his shell. He was much too 
generous ever to be jealous, and he never envied 
Robin for the affection Lord Strode so openly 
bestowed upon him. He was convinced that 
Robin was a far worthier object of any one’s 
aff ection than he could ever be. It seemed only 
natural that Robin should be preferred before 
him. He liked, indeed, to see his hero decked in 
the laurel-leaves of conquest. Robin seemed to 
him in those days more superb and splendid than 
he had ever done before. And even to an im- 
partial eye he was a fine specimen of early man- 
hood. Tall, broad-chested, with frank blue eyes 
and crisp fair hair, he stood well over six feet, 
and his movements were lithe and graceful. He 
had a charming expression and manner, and was 
always entirely at his ease. Ambrose could not 
help seeing with a new admiration how com- 
pletely he belonged to Merrywood; how entirely 
he must fulfil Lord Strode’s ideal. The knowl- 
edge did not make Ambrose at all unhappy; he 
was incapable of any mean feelings, and a new 
serenity came into his heart. 

Ambrose’s twenty-first birthday fell in April, 
but owing to Lady Strode’s illness all festivities 
in connection with it were postponed until the 
summer, as she was still at Cannes with her hus- 


FINE CLAY 


427 


band. It was many years since Merrywood 
Place had been shut up for so long a time. Am- 
brose, who was at Oxford, spent the Easter 
vacation in town with Robin, who now had a 
little flat of his own there. 

While Ambrose had been under his grand- 
father’s roof a certain loyalty had constrained 
him to take no further steps in the direction 
which all his life had been so plainly and per- 
sistently indicated to him, but now he was of age 
and his own master. Already he was the recipi- 
ent of the large income he had inherited from his 
father, but his tastes remained simple, and he 
spent but little of it. Robin told him laughingly 
that he had no idea how to spend money, and he 
recognized the truth of this speech. 

‘‘But I want to spend some now,” he said, “I 
wish you would come abroad with me, Robin.” 

“Why, where on earth should we go? They 
don’t want us at Cannes,” said Robin. 

“Anywhere you like. But I should like to go 
to Italy.” 

“Italy?” said Robin. “Why do you want to 
go to Italy?” 

Ambrose’s eyes shone with a queer radiance. 

“Let’s go to Rome, Robin,” he said. 

“ ‘Let’s go to Rome, Robin.’ ” Robin mim- 
icked him, for the r’s of this sentence had been 
very guttural, as they still were when Ambrose 
was at all excited. 

“It wouldn’t be half bad,” he said. “I’ve al- 
ways wanted to go to Italy.” 

They left Charing Cross on the following 


428 


FINE CLAY 


morning. To Ambrose the train throbbed to 
the rhythm of a single sentence that plowed 
through all his thoughts. 

“I am going back. ... I am going back”. . . 

His heart beat suffocatingly. He wondered 
how Robin could look so calm and composed and 
unmoved. Sixteen years had passed since he had 
made that journey — a little sobbing boy who re- 
fused to be comforted. Now he was going back 
to the land of his dreams; he prayed that those 
dreams might come true. 


CHAPTER XXXIX 


13 obin found a number of friends and ac- 
A ^ quaintances in Rome. People at the Em- 
bassy, people who lived there, people staying in 
huge hotels. The city was crowded for Easter. 
Ambrose stole away during Holy Week, and at- 
tended the somber splendid services that marked 
those last four days of the penitential season. 
He was glad to find that his cousin betrayed no 
interest in his movements, and did not trouble his 
head about him. Ambrose had hired a motor 
and had placed it at Robin’s service. They did 
not often meet, for Robin lunched and dined out 
nearly every day. 

Ambrose spent a great deal of his time in St. 
Peter’s. How well he remembered it — so well 
that when he first entered it, it was strangely fa- 
miliar. He remembered the half circle of glim- 
mering lamps that shone above the crypt where 
the Apostle lay entombed. It was there that 
Mr. Hurrell had discovered him and Tibby. 

On Good Friday Robin suggested that they 
should attend a service at the English Church, 
and was a little surprised when Ambrose refused. 

“Do go alone, Robin,” he said, “I ... I have 
got an engagement.” 

“I’ve always wondered why you weren’t more 
religious, Ambrose,” Robin said. “Most quiet 
thoughtful men like you go in for that sort of 
thing. But you’ve always cold-shouldered it.” 


430 


FINE CLAY 


Ambrose’s face remained bleak and enigmatic. 
He did not reply, and Robin did not press the 
subject. Soon he would have to be told — soon 
all his little world would know. . . . 

There was a very well-known English priest, 
a convert, called Father Pacificus, staying in 
Rome at that time. Ambrose deliberately 
sought an interview with him. He was staying 
at a quiet hotel near the Church of Santa Maria 
sopra Minerva. Like Nicodemus seeking in- 
struction, Ambrose went to see him at night. 
He found himself face to face with a tall ascetic- 
looking man of the conventionally priestly type 
— aquiline nose, thin lips, a high brow and grave 
penetrating eyes. 

Now he was actually about to confide the se- 
cret that he had carried silently in his heart for 
sixteen years, a sudden shyness overcame him. 
Then, all shyness forgotten, the words poured 
from his lips. The secret that had been a bur- 
den was laid at human feet. ... Or who shall 
say if it was humbly confided not to human ears, 
but to Divine keeping? . . . Once launched, he 
told the whole story. It was, even humanly 
speaking, a thrilling little drama of spiritual ex- 
periences. The episode of the rosary, the Five 
Mysteries never forgotten for one single night, 
the prayers counted on the fingers when the. beads 
were forfeited, the visit to the Oratory when he 
was a little boy, the punishments that had fol- 
lowed those transgressions, then the long dogged 
silence. . . . Nothing was omitted, nothing ex- 
aggerated. The son of Yolande, the grandson 
of Veronica, stood there self -betrayed. . . . 


FINE CLAY 


431 


A light almost as of unshed tears shone in the 
priest’s eyes as he listened to this recital of faith. 

“And you wish still to become a Catholic?” 

“It is not a question of becoming,” said Am- 
brose, “I have always been one. I have never 
practised my religion since I came to the age of 
reason. I have never been to Mass — until this 
week — since I was five. I have never been to 
confession nor made my First Communion. I 
remembered only a few prayers, and those I have 
said night and morning for sixteen years.” 

“My son — Almighty God has been very merci- 
ful to you in giving you the strength to keep the 
faith untouched in your heart.” 

“There is another thing,” said Ambrose; 
“since my father’s death I have been my grand- 
father’s heir. And as a Catholic I am obliged to 
forfeit a very large inheritance. But I cannot 
claim it. There was a clause in my great-grand- 
father’s will excluding Catholics from enjoying 
the money and property. I have already begun 
to receive the income which is due to the heir 
when he comes of age. So you see that I must 
declare my faith as soon as possible. I am a 
Catholic, Father, and I can only obtain my in- 
heritance by deliberately and openly apostatiz- 
ing.” 

“Which God forbid,” said the priest gravely. 
“You have not told me your name?” 

“Ambrose Lumleigh.” 

“I seem to remember.” . . . He looked at him 
searchingly. “Ambrose,” he said, “have you 
forgotten me? I am Cyril Standish . . . now 
Father Pacificus.” 


432 


FINE CLAY 


“I could not think why your face was so fa- 
miliar to me, and your voice, too,” said Ambrose 
slowly. “For to my knowledge I didn’t know 
any priest in the world. But when you left 
Mr. Collins’s, Bertram told me that you intended 
to become a Catholic and perhaps a priest. I 
wished then I had spoken to you. It almost 
broke my heart to think that help had been so 
near and I had not known.” 

“Perhaps God wished you to wait, Ambrose. 
You were intended perhaps to have this time 
of trial to prove your faith.” 

“Father — when may I make my First Com- 
munion?” 

“My dear boy — you will have to prepare for 
your first confession, and then we can think about 
it. But perhaps under the circumstances we 
need not delay very long.” 

“Ah,” he said, “please don’t keep me wait- 
ing. ... I have waited . . . and starved . . . 
in torment ." . . . 

It was his first word of rebellion against that 
long discipline of patience Now with the haven 
in sight he felt that he could not endure it any 
longer. Father Pacificus looked at him with 
compassion. 

“We shall see,” he said; “but I think it might 
well be on Easter Sunday.” 

“Next Sunday?” Ambrose’s emotion was so 
great that he dropped on his knees and kissed 
the priest’s hand — as long ago Tibby had taught 
him to do. . . . 

“Yes. You can make your confession to-mor- 
row. I will give you some books to help you.” 


FINE CLAY 


433 


“But on Sunday?” He brushed his hand 
across his eyes. “It seems impossible ... to 
me . . . unworthy.” . . . 

Later, Ambrose was led on to speak of his 
mother. He told the outlines of her story in so 
far as he knew them. And as the priest listened 
it seemed to him that the hands of this dead 
woman, who for her faith’s sake and for the sake 
of this boy’s faith, had made such deliberate re- 
nouncement of human happiness, must have in 
some mystical sense supported and sustained her 
son, who had through those years of childhood 
and boyhood so marvelously corresponded to the 
promptings of Divine Grace. 

“Have you thought at all of your future?” he 
asked. 

Surely the final grace must be given to one 
who had so long persevered. . . . 

“I know what you are thinking of, Father. 
That has all been part of my dreams.” . . . 

When he had gone, Father Pacificus medi- 
tated over that strange mystery — the apparently 
overwhelming insistence with which Almighty 
God sometimes deigns to summon a soul into 
His direct service, multiplying graces, and en- 
riching it with what can quite reverently be 
termed an almost invidious generosity, as if the 
possession of that particular soul were a thing 
of Divine desire. He could not doubt from what 
he had just heard that this had been the case 
with Ambrose Lumleigh — the boy whom for 
so long he had remembered in his own prayers. 


434 


FINE CLAY 


Not alone and unaided could this little child have 
clung through years of unbroken separation to 
his early knowledge of the faith. Sustained and 
upheld by that grace which had been poured out 
upon him in apparently measureless abundance, 
his perseverance had increased year by year. 
Sometimes there were to be seen, even in this 
modem world, these children of benediction, who 
walked undeviatingly in the light. . . . 

When he had told his story his face had been 
imbued with a strange illumination. The term 
mystic is apt to be loosely applied in these days, 
but there was little doubt that some of his ex- 
periences had trespassed upon those undefined 
and supernatural boundaries. That second and 
interior life, lived side by side and in apparent 
harmony with his every-day exterior one, had 
not been a thing of idle imagination. It was an 
existence apart and purely spiritual, wherein the 
soul communed with that which was Unknowable. 
It had in a sense lifted him above and out of 
those cares and difficulties which had made those 
sixteen years a time of such hard and bitter pro- 
bation. What would happen to that soul, now 
that it was about to come into its own? It was 
a soul new-born, yet filled with past experience; 
a soul deeply mature yet virginally fresh. 
What new graces were in store for him who had 
so abundantly proved his stability and unchang- 
ing faithfulness? Would he not be as one drunk 
with possession? . . . Starved, he would come to 
fulfilment; thirsty, he should drink of the Liv- 
ing Waters. This boy had proved himself to be 
fashioned of fine clay. He had been single- 


FINE CLAY 


435 


minded in his loyalty, in his passionate fidelity. 
Not often perhaps had a priest — accustomed as 
all priests must be to the unfolding of such soul 
dramas — to listen to such an illuminating recital 
— to look so close upon the infinite working of 
Divine Grace in the human soul. And he had 
come so humbly, with that humility which in- 
evitably characterizes the one to whom peculiar 
graces have been vouchsafed. The time had 
come when he dared be silent no more. He 
seemed unaware of any sacrifice in the renounce- 
ment of earthly possessions; to leave them, in- 
deed, was to him no sacrifice. He was coming 
into his own after long waiting, spent in silence 
and patience and persistent prayer. 

On Easter Sunday he made his First Com- 
munion in the Church of Santa Maria sopra 
Minerva. . . . “The Bread that I will give is 
My Flesh . . . for the Life of the World” 
The life of the world ... the life of those un- 
countable millions — the great multitude whom 
no man can number ... for whom Christ died 
and rose again. . . . 

Thus the chains dropped from the hands and 
feet of Ambrose Lumleigh, and he emerged from 
the prison which so long had held him, into the 
full possession of that inheritance where He 
Whom he had so faithfully served was waiting 
to enter into his heart. 

“Why, Ambrose — how happy you look. I be- 
lieve you are in love.” . . . 

Robin met him on the steps of the hotel and 
addressed him mockingly. 


436 


FINE CLAY 


Ambrose smiled. “Buona Fasquaf > he said. 
He held out his hand and grasped his cousin’s. 
“I’ve given you an Easter gift, Robin, but I 
can’t tell you what it is just yet. You will know 
later.” And he passed into the hotel. 


CHAPTER XL 


rflHE preparations for Ambrose’s coming of 
A age were arranged upon a very large scale. 
Lady Strode, who was now completely restored 
to health, took an active interest in them. De- 
voted as she had always been to her grandson, 
she found that he had returned from Italy with 
a new charm. They had not met until he arrived 
for the festivities which were fixed for the end of 
June. 

Superb weather prevailed. Huge marquees 
were erected in the Park for the entertainment 
of the farmers and tenants as well as for the la- 
borers on the estate. Ambrose took it all very 
quietly; he had only made a special request that 
there might be no presentation gifts. He was 
like one in a dream. He dreaded the moment 
when he would have to reveal that which he had 
so long hidden in his heart. There had been an 
awkward pause, too, when Lord Strode had said 
to him: “You will of course come to church 
with us on Sunday! Whatever you may feel, 
you must not display any open indiff erence and 
antagonism.” He could not forget how firmly 
Ambrose had refused Confirmation. 

He had been told to prepare the speech which 
he would inevitably have to make. “Get Robin 
to help you. He always says the right thing,” 
said Lord Strode. But Ambrose did not resort 

437 


438 


FINE CLAY 


to Robin’s assistance. What he had to say must 
be prepared alone. He wished that this dra- 
matic touch could have been avoided. But only 
thus could he tell his grandfather, and it was 
also in some sense to justify himself that he de- 
sired to make his “great refusal” a public one. 
. . . And then he would go away quietly. . . . 

He never forgot rising to his feet to address 
the massed groups of friends, farmers, tenants 
and dependants who had come thus to do him 
honor, and by whom he had been presented with 
an illuminated address in spite of his refusal of 
all gifts. 

First he said a few words, thanking them. 
There was a hint of emotion in his voice, and the 
marked foreign accent, which always showed in 
moments of strong excitement, betrayed his sen- 
sibility. 

“If it had been necessary,” he said, “I should 
have said something of my own unworthiness, 
my own unsuitability, to carry on the traditions 
of my name: of my own unfitness to be the heir 
of so much that is important and beautiful and 
wealthy. But it will not be necessary to dwell 
on that side for reasons which I am now going to 
explain. But first let me thank you for the 
honor you have done me, for your kind welcome, 
and for your reception of me that has been so 
touching. I think you have made it, perhaps, 
more difficult than I had imagined it would be 
for me to tell you what I am obliged to tell you 
to-day. Perhaps I have made a mistake in not 
telling you before — perhaps I owed you this con- 
fidence. And yet it seemed to me that I ought 


FINE CLAY 


439 


to make as public an avowal as possible, and for 
this reason I shall ask your forgiveness for keep- 
ing silence until now.” 

“What on earth does he mean?” fussed Lord 
Strode, to Robin. “Did you not help him? 
What on earth is he going to say? I hope he is 
not going to make a fool of himself! No one 
will ever forget it if he does. I ought to have 
heard him read his speech beforehand!” 

His fierce gray brows were savagely knit; he 
stared angrily at Ambrose. But Lady Strode 
leaned a little forward and watched him with a 
delicate flush on her face. 

Ambrose was not unmindful of his grand- 
father’s rising impatience, but it did not frighten 
him now. Robin was near him, and this gave 
him courage. Robin would understand. 

After a moment’s pause he proceeded, but his 
voice, though still clear, was not quite so steady. 

“I think you are all aware that there are cer- 
tain restrictions upon this property. My great- 
grandfather placed those restrictions for reasons 
which seemed to him good. He left a clause in 
his will by which he rendered it impossible for 
certain persons to inherit any part of his money 
or of his property.” 

Now he became suddenly aware of Lady Kath- 
leen’s bright flushed face turned towards him, 
with an expression of painful suspense and solic- 
itude. She seemed to hear him reading again 
those strangely magic words: “Pass the gates 
of Luthany — tread the region Elenore.” . . . 

“The persons he thus excluded from inherit- 
ing his property were those of a certain faith — 


440 


FINE CLAY 


the Roman Catholic faith. And that is why I 
shall never inherit Merry wood nor be your friend 
or your landlord. I am very sorry that this 
should be so for many reasons. Merrywood has 
been my home for sixteen years. I should have 
liked to stay and help my grandfather. But I 
can never do so. My mother, whom you never 
knew, was a Catholic, and she had me baptized a 
Catholic, and she brought me up as one until her 
death. Amd quite lately — as soon as I could 
after coming of age — I returned to the practice 
of my religion. I did this with full knowledge 
of all that it meant to me in the way of disinher- 
itance and disability, and with the far more pain- 
ful knowledge of all that it meant in the way of 
pain to those dearest to me. And I can make 
no apology to you except to tell you now that I 
have always, always wished to return to the prac- 
tice of my religion, and that I never wilfully sur- 
rendered my heritage of faith. I make no other 
apology because you can see that it was a mat- 
ter of conscience, and I dared not act otherwise. 
. . . But there is one thing which in the midst 
of my present sadness makes me supremely 
happy, and that is that my place here will be 
filled — and filled as I could never have hoped to 
fill it — by my dear friend and cousin Mr. Robin 
Lumleigh.” He paused and turned to Robin 
and his voice broke a little. Robin turned scar- 
let and his mouth trembled. “You all know 
him, perhaps better indeed than you know me, 
and I am sure that you all love him. If I leave 
Merrywood with pain, it is also with joy that I 
am surrendering what is so dear to me to one 


FINE CLAY 


441 


so beloved by me, and by us all. He will do his 
duty here as I could never have done it; he will 
help my grandfather as I could never have 
helped him! He has been for many years my 
dearest friend and comrade. I wish you to-day 
Hail and Farewell. I wish I could have re- 
mained among you. But if I cannot do so, I 
can at least give you one who will take my place, 
and I know you will welcome him as kindly as 
you have welcomed me.” 

There was a murmur rather of dismay than 
of applause, yet there was not wanting in it a 
note of approbation. The boy’s speech had been 
frank, modest, affecting, even poignant. Slight 
and graceful, with his small, vivid face lit by 
those dark and flaming eyes, he stood before 
them, and had there been any present who had 
known Yolande Pascoe, they could not have 
failed to see how she lived again in this young 
son of hers. Long, long ago the chains that 
bound him now were forged. Long, long ago, 
when Maxim Pascoe thoughtlessly and carelessly 
slipped the ring on his little bride’s finger in the 
small Catholic church of that obscure hill-sta- 
tion in India. Dead hands, that were as pow- 
erful and strong as the dead hands of the first 
Lord Strode, had held him. Dead hands that 
seemed to have fought an almost macabre con- 
flict for the soul of Ambrose Lumleigh. 

Lord Strode was silent; he leaned heavily on 
Robin’s arm. His wife sobbed audibly. Mr. 
Chenevix rose to break the awkward pause that 
had supervened. 

“We have all heard what Mr. Lumleigh has 


442 


FINE CLAY 


had to tell us, and I am sure that we must all have 
been deeply touched by the way he has per- 
formed a very difficult task. We can all — 
while deploring the reasons — admire him for the 
courage of his convictions. It is not an easy 
task to relinquish the responsibilities of our birth. 
It is not an easy task to fling aside wealth and 
property for poverty and obscurity, and to be 
compelled to fail in apparent consideration and 
gratitude towards those who have brought us up 
and cared for us. This is what Mr. Lumleigh 
has had to do. But he has obeyed his conscience 
and though we cannot think with him — though 
we may even find it in our hearts to blame him 
— we must at least admire his courage, his high 
sense of honor, and his unswerving rectitude. I 
would ask you to give three cheers for him and 
three cheers for Mr. Robin Lumleigh to whom 
we must all extend a very warm welcome, in com- 
pliance with his cousin’s generous request as well 
as for his own sake!” 

The cheers were given, and there was little 
doubt as to which was the more popular of the 
two young men. There was no doubt that 
Robin was more welcome to them than Ambrose 
could ever have been. Lord Strode, gray and 
bowed, rose to speak. 

“I did my best,” he said, “to save my grand- 
son from those contaminating influences to which 
as a little child he was subjected. I did my best, 
because he was my own dear son’s son, to save 
him for Merrywood. But, as you see, he has re- 
belled; he has shown himself undutiful, careless 
of responsibility, indifferent to the obligations 


FINE CLAY 


443 


of birth, ungrateful to us for all we have done 
for him. My only consolation is that in his 
place there will be my dear cousin, Mr. Robin 
Lumleigh. I present him to you now as my 
heir, full of confidence that he will never disap- 
point us.” He took Robin’s hand and led him 
a step forward amid renewed and enthusiastic 
cheering. 

Lady Strode insisted upon having a final fare- 
well interview with Ambrose before he left 
Merrywood Place never to return. But she 
could not induce her husband to see him. He 
had shut himself up in his study, a prey to the 
bitterest disappointment of his life. His only 
consolation lay in the thought that Robin would 
succeed him, and that in his hands the traditions 
of the house would be safe and secure. But his 
pride had suffered a sharp wound. He knew 
now that he had been defeated — that he had al- 
ways been defeated in his conflict with Ambrose. 
The mother’s influence had been too strong. 
Again he felt that old half -superstitious belief 
that she, through all those years at Merrywood, 
had been watching over and guarding her boy, 
for whom in life she had made such tremendous 
sacrifices. 

Lady Strode was alone in her sitting-room 
when Ambrose came in. He was dressed for his 
journey* His face was smiling and radiant; his 
eyes shone with the light of serene and mystical 
joys. All that had been ambiguous and enig- 
matic had gone from his face. All that had per- 
plexed and bewildered him had dropped from 
him, as a mantle forever doffed. He ran up 


444 


FINE CLAY 


to her, knelt by her side. Her hands caressed 
his hair ; she drew him to her. 

“Darling,” she said, “darling.” . . . Her eyes 
were full of tears. 

“You mustn’t be sorry for me,” he said; 
“Robin will be son and grandson to you. I 
could never have filled a big position. Gran- 
nie, dear — I must go where my heart is, and it 
isn’t that I don’t love you better than any one 
else in the world.” 

“No, no” . . . she said; “I understand. We 
couldn’t have hoped to keep Yolande’s son.” 
She recognized this fact amid indescribable deso- 
lation. “So you always remembered, Ambrose? 
You never forgot?” 

He said slowly after her: 

“I always remembered. I never forgot.” 
He paused. “It held me always — sometimes it 
seemed almost like an exterior force ... it was 
stronger than anything else. Some day I knew 
that I should go back.” 

“Dear boy,” she said, “I always knew you 
wanted something that you hadn’t got. I 
couldn’t help seeing that you looked like one 
starving in the midst of plenty. I used to won- 
der what it might be, and sometimes I feared the 
truth. But you have done the only thing you 
could do. You have not tarnished the honor of 
your name. I was never so proud of you as 
when you stood up to-day.” 

“Oh, I’m glad — I’m glad. Grannie — that you 
weren’t angry.” . . . 

“Oh, no,” she said, “I don’t think I should ever 
be one to keep any one back from what they be- 


FINE CLAY 


445 


lieved to be the truth. When you were little I 
wanted to save you for Merrywood, and I 
thought, as you were so young, it would be quite 
easy. Now it breaks my heart to think you must 
go away — that I must lose you. I have lost 
two sons, but I do not think they were ever more 
dear to me than you have been. You were al- 
ways more gentle and affectionate to me than 
they were. What shall you do? You have so 
little — only your mother’s money. ... You can 
hardly live on that, though you know I will help 
you all I can.” 

“Oh, Grannie — I shan’t want anything, thank 
you. I’m going to be a priest if I can. I shall 
go back to Rome and Father Pacificus will ad- 
vise me. And I shall write to you.” . . . 

“Yes,” she said, “I shall want your letters, 
Ambrose. And perhaps some day your grand- 
father will forgive you enough to let you come 
back here . . . and see me.” 

“Yes,” he said, “whenever you wish it I will 
come, if I am allowed. I don’t know anything 
yet except that I am going back. My mother,” 
he hesitated, “made great sacrifices for me. She 
loved my father, and she renounced this hap- 
piness for my sake. ... I have had the feeling 
that she was near me through it all.” 

Lady Strode went downstairs into the hall 
when the motor came to the door to take him 
away. Robin was with her, and she leaned upon 
his arm. Neither of them ever forgot that 
when Ambrose thus went forth from the heritage 
he had forfeited, outcast, stripped of all he pos- 
sessed, and almost penniless, his eyes shone as if 


446 


FINE CLAY 


he had seen a vision. At that moment his face 
was almost as beautiful as Yolande’s had been, 
when she knelt before the Calvary upon the cliff 
and prayed that Gifford Lumleigh might love 
her. 


THE END 


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ROMANCE OF A PLAYWRIGHT, THE. Bornier. 

ROSE OF THE WORLD. Martin. 

ROUND TABLE OF AMERICAN CATHOLIC NOVELISTS. 
ROUND TABLE OF IRISH AND ENGLISH CATHOLIC NOV- 
ELI STS 

ROUND TABLE OF GERMAN CATHOLIC NOVELISTS. 
ROUND TABLE OF FRENCH CATHOLIC NOVELISTS. 
ROUND THE WORLD SERIES. Vol. I. 

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RULER OF THE KINGDOM, THE. Keon. 

SECRET OF THE GREEN VASE, THE. Cooke. 

SHADOW OF EVERSLEIGH, THE. Lansdowne. 

SO AS BY FIRE. Connor. 

SOGGARTH AROON. Guinan. 

SON OF SIRO, THE. Copus. 


A series of inter- 
esting articles on 
a great variety of 
subjects of much 
educational value. 
Profusely illus- 
trated. 


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SONGS AND SONNETS. Egan. 

STORY OF CECILIA, THE. Hinkson. 

STUORE. Earls. 

TEMPEST OF THE HEART, THE. Gray. 

TEST OF COURAGE, THE. Ross. 

THAT MAN’S DAUGHTER. Ross. 

THEIR CHOICE. Skinner. 

THROUGH THE DESERT. Sienkiewicz. 

TRAINING OF SILAS. Devine, S.J. 

TRUE STORY OF MASTER GERARD, THE. Sadlier. 
TURN OF THE TIDE, THE. Gray. 

UNBIDDEN GUEST, THE. Cooke. 

UNRAVELLING OF A TANGLE, THE. Taggart. 

UP IN ARDMUIRLAND. Barrett. 

VOCATION OF EDWARD CONWAY, THE. Egan. 
WARGRAVE TRUST, THE. Reid. 

WAY THAT LED BEYOND, THE. Harrison. 
WEDDING BELLS OF GLENDALOUGH, THE. Earls. 
WHEN LOVE IS STRONG. Keon. 

WOMAN OF FORTUNE. Christian Reid. 

WORLD WELL LOST, THE. Robertson. 


JUVENILES 

ALTHEA. Nirdlinger. 

ADVENTURE WITH THE APACHES, AN. Ferry. 
AS GOLD IN THE FURNACE. Copus. 

AS TRUE AS GOLD. Mannix. 

BELL FOUNDRY, THE. Schaching. 

BERKLEYS, THE. Wight. 

BEST FOOT FORWARD, THE. Finn. 

BETWEEN FRIENDS. Aumerle. 

BISTOURI. Melandri. 

BLISSYLVANIA POST-OFFICE, THE. Taggart. 
BOB-O’-LINK. Waggaman. 

BROWNIE AND I. Aumerle. 

BUNT AND BILL. C. Mulholland. 

BY BRANSCOME RIVER. Taggart. 

CAPTAIN TED. Waggaman. 

CAVE BY THE BEECH FORK, THE. Spalding. 
CHARLIE CHITTYWICK. Bearne. 

CHILDREN OF CUPA. Mannix. 

CHILDREN OF THE LOG CABIN. Delamare. 
CLARE LORAINE. "Lee.” 

CLAUDE LIGHTFOOT. Finn. 

COLLEGE BOY, A. Yorke. 

CUPA REVISITED. Mannix. 

DADDY DAN. Waggaman. 

DEAR FRIENDS. Nirdlinger. 

DIMPLING’S SUCCESS. C. Mulholland. 

DOLLAR HUNT, THE. E. C. Martin. 

ETHELRED PRESTON. Finn. 

EVERY-DAY GIRL, AN. Crowley. 

FAIRY OF THE SNOWS, THE. Finn, S.J. 

FIVE O’CLOCK STORIES. 

FLOWER OF THE FLOCK. Egan. 

FOR THE WHITE ROSE. Hinkson. 

FREDDY CARR’S ADVENTURES. Garrold. 
FREDDY CARR AND HIS FRIENDS. Garrold. 
FRED’S LITTLE DAUGHTER. S. T. Smith. 
GOLDEN LILY, THE. Hinkson. 

GREAT CAPTAIN, THE. Hinkson. 

GUILD BOYS OF RIDINGDALE. Bearne, S.J. 
HALDEMAN CHILDREN, THE. Mannix. 
HARMONY FLATS. Whitmire. 

HARRY DEE. Finn, S.J. 

HARRY RUSSELL. Copus, S.J. 

HEIR OF DREAMS, AN. O'Malley. 

HIS FIRST AND LAST APPEARANCE. Finn, S.J. 
HOSTAGE OF WAR. Bonesteel. 


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HOW THEY WORKED THEIR WAY. Egan, 
inquest OF THE GOLDEN CHEST. Barton. 

JACK HILDRETH ON THE NILE. Taggart. 

JACK O’LANTERN. Waggaman. 

JUNIORS OF ST. BEDE’S. Bryson. 

JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. First Series. 

JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. Second Series. 

JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. Third Series. 

KLONDIKE PICNIC, A. Donnelly. 

LEGENDS AND STORIES OF THE CHILD JESUS FROM 
MANY LANDS. Lutz. 

LITTLE APOSTLE ON CRUTCHES, THE. Delamare. 
LITTLE GIRL FROM BACK EAST, THE. Roberts. 

LITTLE MARSHALLS AT THE LAKE. Nixon-Roulet. 
LITTLE MISSY. Waggaman. 

LOYAL BLUE AND ROYAL SCARLET. Taggart. 

MADCAP SET AT ST. ANNE’S, THE. Brunowe. 

MAKING OF MORTLAKE, THE. Copus, S.J. 

MARKS OF THE BEAR CLAWS, THE. Spalding, S.J. 
MARY TRACY’S FORTUNE. Sadlier. 

MELOR OF THE SILVER HAND. Bearne, S.J. 

MILLY AVELING. S. T. Smith. 

MORE FIVE O’CLOCK STORIES. 

MOSTLY BOYS. Finn, S.J. 

MYSTERIOUS DOORWAY, THE. Sadlier. 

MYSTERY OF CLEVERLY, THE. Barton. 

MYSTERY OF HORNBY HALL, THE. Sadlier. 

NAN NOBODY. Waggaman. 

NED RIEDER. Wehs. 

NEW BOYS AT RIDINGDALE, THE. Bearne, S.J. 

NEW SCHOLAR AT ST. ANNE’S, THE. Brunowe. 

OLD CHARLMONT’S SEED BED. S. T. Smith. 

OLD MILL ON THE WITHROSE. Spalding, S.J. 

OUR LADY’S LUTENIST. Bearne, S.J. 

PANCHO AND PANCHITA. Mannix. 

PAULINE ARCHER. Sadlier. 

PERCY WYNN. Finn, S.J. 

PERIL OF DIONYSIO. Mannix. 

PETRONILLA, AND OTHER STORIES. Donnelly. 

PICKLE AND PEPPER. Dorsey. 

PILGRIM FROM IRELAND, A. Carnot. 

PLAYWATER PLOT. Waggaman. 

POVERINA. Buckenham. 

QUEEN’S PAGE, THE. Hinkson. 

QUEEN’S PROMISE, THE. Waggaman. 

RACE FOR COPPER ISLAND, THE. Spalding, S.J. 

RECRUIT TOMMY COLLINS. Bonesteel. 

RIDINGDALE FLOWER SHOW. Bearne, S.J. 

ROMANCE OF THE SILVER SHOON. Bearne, S.J. 
SEA-GULLS’ ROCK, THE. Sandeau. 

SEVEN LITTLE MARSHALLS, THE. Nixon-Roulet. 
SHADOWS LIFTED. Copus, S.J. 

SHEER PLUCK. Bearne, S.J. 

SHERIFF OF THE BEECH FORK, THE. Spalding, S.J. 

ST. CUTHBERT’S. Copus, S.J. 

STRONG-ARM OF AVALON. Waggaman. 

SUGAR-CAMP AND AFTER, THE. Spalding, S.J. 

SUMMER AT WOODVILLE, A. Sadlier. 

TALES AND LEGENDS OF THE MIDDLE AGES. Capella. 
TALISMAN, THE. Sadlier. 

TAMING OF POLLY, THE. Dorsey. 

THAT FOOTBALL GAME. Finn, S.J. 

THREE GIRLS AND ESPECIALLY ONE. Taggart. 

TOLD IN THE TWILIGHT. Mother Salome. 

TOM LOSELY: BOY. Copus, S.J. 

TOM’S LUCK-POT. Waggaman. 

TOM PLAYFAIR. Finn, S.J. 

TOORALLADDY. Walsh. 

TRANSPLANTING OF TESSIE, THE. Waggaman. 
TREASURE OF NUGGET MOUNTAIN, THE. Taggart. 


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TWO LITTLE GIRLS. Mack. 0 45 

VIOLIN MAKER OF MITTENWALD, THE. Schaching. 0 45 

WAYWARD WINIFRED. Sadlier. 0 85 

WINNETOU, THE APACHE KNIGHT. Taggart. 0 85 

WITCH OF RIDINGDALE, THE. Bearne, S.J. 0 85 

YOUNG COLOR GUARD, THE. Bonesteel. 0 45 

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THE YOUNG MAN’S GUIDE. For manly boys and 
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MANUAL OF THE HOLY EUCHARIST. Conferences 
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SHORT VISITS TO THE BLESSED SACRAMENT. 
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MASS DEVOTIONS, AND READINGS ON THE 
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THE SACRED HEART BOOK. Oblong 24mo. 

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A PIOUS PREPARATION FOR FIRST HOLY 
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DEVOTIONS AND PRAYERS BY ST. ALPHONSUS 
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for Every Day, Every Week, and Every Month. 
Ward. 16mo. 

DEVOTIONS AND PRAYERS FOR THE SICK 
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DOMINICAN MISSION 
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EUCHARISTIC SOUL ELEVATIONS. Thoughts and 
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FLOWERS OF PIETY. Approved Prayers for Cath- 
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FOLLOWING OF CHRIST, THE. By Thomas A 
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FOLLOWING OF CHRIST, THE. By Thomas A 
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FOLLOWING OF CHRIST, THE. By Thomas A 
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GARLAND OF PRAYER, THE. A dainty prayer-book. 
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GOLDEN KEY TO HEAVEN. With Epistles and 
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HELP FOR THE POOR SOULS IN PURGATORY. 
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INTRODUCTION TO A DEVOUT LIFE. By St. 

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KEY OF HEAVEN, THE. With Epistles and Gospels. 
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LITTLE MASS BOOK. By Right Rev. Mgr. J. S. M. 

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MANUAL OF THE HOLY NAME. 24mo. 
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MANUAL OF ST. ANTHONY, NEW. 32mo. 
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OUR FAVORITE NOVENAS. By Right Rev. Mgr. 
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OUR FAVORITE NOVENAS. By Right Rev. Mgr. 

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OUR MONTHLY DEVOTIONS. By Right Rev. Mgr. 

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